Behind the Rain
by GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: Newkirk wasn't the first soldier to experience this embarrassing problem, and he probably wouldn't be the last. But every time it happened to him, he felt lonely, mortified, and hopelessly immature. With help from his friends, he started to look beyond a pile of soggy sheets and blankets to unravel the trauma that had dogged him for years.
1. Chapter 1: Peter's Secret

"Hey, Newkirk, that's not funny!" Sergeant Carter shouted as he woke from a sound sleep.

On the bunk above him, Corporal Newkirk startled awake. "Huh? What? Carter, what are you on about?"

Carter rose up and faced Newkirk, wiping something wet from his mid-section. "Nice prank, Newkirk," he said.

Newkirk suddenly noticed a warm, wet sensation spreading beneath his belly on his thin mattress. He blushed and Carter quickly knew what had happened.

"Gosh, again, Peter?" Carter said softly. "OK, don't worry, buddy. I'll get the Colonel. We'll handle it."

Newkirk nodded, eyes shot wide with fear. "Hurry, Carter," he whispered. "Please?" He added in a small voice. Newkirk sank back on his belly and adjusted the blanket, hoping the wet spot wasn't obvious. He hated for Colonel Hogan to see him this weak, but he didn't have a choice. The Colonel would know what to do.

Carter rapped at the office door. "Come in," the Colonel said, and Carter edged in quietly. "What's up, Carter?"

"It's Newkirk, sir," Carter said. "He wet the bed."

"Not again", Hogan moaned. "And he won't get up, right? Ah, jeez. He must be mortified."

"He's still in bed. Really sleepy, and yeah, he's real embarrassed," Carter said as Hogan hurried to button his shirt and pull on his jacket. "I woke up to a shower, and I yelled at him, thinking it was one of his pranks. That woke him up and boy, did he turn red."

"Red, huh? That's a good idea. That'll work," Hogan mused, gears churning in his mind. He opened the door to the main room, pushing Carter ahead of him as Sergeant Schultz entered Barracks 2. "Raus, Raus," the rotund sergeant bellowed. Schultz pointed at Newkirk, the only man still in his bunk, and added, "Aufstehen, Newkirk." Newkirk stayed silent, curled on his side, avoiding everyone's eyes and praying that any dripping had stopped.

Hogan was there in a flash, laying a hand across Newkirk's forehead. "He's burning up, Schultz. We're keeping him in bed today. Carter, you stay with him. He can't be alone in this condition," he added, stroking Newkirk's head in a bid to reassure him, then resting his hand on his back to block anyone else's view. "

Schultz shrugged. "I'll tell the big shot. Rest, Englander." Out he went.

Newkirk shot a grateful look at Hogan as he herded the other men outside. As soon as they were gone, Newkirk hopped down from his bunk and started peeling off his sopping nightshirt and undershorts. "Sorry, m-m-mate," he told Carter. "I d-don't know what happened."

"It's OK, buddy, really," Carter replied. "You were probably out cold. Used to happen to my kid brother all the time when he was little." Oh, boy, that probably isn't helping, Carter chided himself. Joe's just 14, and Peter knows it. "Anyway, we'll get things cleaned up in a jiffy and no one will notice a thing."

No man could have been more understanding toward his friends than Carter, and Newkirk knew he didn't deserve him. Newkirk was often irritable and impatient, and could be relentless in sniping at the man who was nevertheless one of his best friends.

Carter might be a goofball, but right now he was a portrait of total competence, and Newkirk was grateful. "Tell you what, Newkirk," he said as he hauled the wet mattress down from the top bunk. "I'll take this one into the Colonel's office and swap it for the mattress on his bottom bunk. Then we can figure out how to clean that wet one in private."

Newkirk sighed. He was stark naked, washing pee off his belly and legs with a cloth at the sink, and wincing at how cold the water was, but it couldn't be helped. He toweled off, pulled on dry undershorts and got dressed. Then he went to help Carter carry the dry mattress to the common room, and together they mopped up a trail of drips between Newkirk's bunk and Hogan's office.

"What about your blanket", Newkirk asked. "How wet did I get it?" He paused. "I'm really sorry for all of this, mmmate." Newkirk didn't oftgen stumble over the word "mate," but he was nervous about what Carter might think of him now. Bloody hell, this was three times in as many months.

"Ahhh. Not so bad," Carter said. "We'll wash it with our laundry. Now hop back up."

"Wait a mmmminute, why?" Newkirk said. "I'm already d-dressed."

"The Colonel told Schultz you had a raging fever. You can't recover that fast!" Carter replied.

"Right," Newkirk said pensively. "Well, I could go lie down in the Colonel's office…"

"On your wet mattress," Carter replied. "Smart."

Sarcasm from Carter, Newkirk thought. Unusual. "All right, Mmmmister Clever, what do you suggest?" Newkirk asked exasperated

"You're right, get back in bed," Carter said.

"Righto," Newkirk said. Then he realized his nightshirt was soaked. "No, wait. Nothing to wear."

"OK, Newkirk," Carter said. "Sit at the table and hold this to your head." He handed Newkirk a cold, wet towel. "I'll say I made you get up to uh, improve your blood flow. And look! The flushing from your fever is already gone!"

"All right," Newkirk agreed. He sat at the table and tried to look miserable. It wasn't hard. The angry letter he had received from his brother yesterday had turned his world upside down. Anytime he heard from or thought about Jamie, it was a bad day, but this time the threats of violence had given him nightmares.

Hogan poked his head back in the barracks and looked around to see if everything was in order. Carter gave him a nod and Hogan smiled back. He took a seat at the table next to Newkirk.

"I told Kinch and LeBeau to keep everyone out for 15 minutes." He looked at Newkirk's beseeching eyes. "Yes, they know. I had to tell them. Now before everyone gets back, what the heck happened, Newkirk?" Hogan asked.

"Governor, if I knew, do you think I would let it happen?" Newkirk said, his eyes wide. "It's bloody em-em-embarrassing."

"It's no picnic for the rest of us either. I swear if this keeps up I'm ordering a supply of diapers in our next shipment from London," Hogan muttered. Newkirk looked half hurt, half puzzled until Hogan snapped, "nappies", then gasped and blushed again. "Noooo," he moaned.

"Sorry, old bean, that was in poor taste," Hogan said, knowing he shouldn't have let his irritation show. "But we do have to get this under control. You understand that, right?"

"There's no one who wants to 'get this under control' mmm-," Peter started. "-mmm -mmmore than me." He looked forlorn, and Hogan jumped into action the best way he knew how: By improvising a plan and issuing orders.

"OK, Newkirk, no drinks before bedtime," Hogan started, slapping Newkirk on the back. "Ease up on the coffee; it's clearly irritating your bladder. Hit the latrine before lights out, you hear me? I'll get Kinch to start waking you up at 4 am to pee. That might help." Hogan didn't notice, but Newkirk was blushing again. He didn't want to be told what to do like a child, but he knew the Colonel was probably right and was just trying to help.

Hogan's expression softened as he noticed his glum corporal nodding, his shoulders slumped and his head hanging. He'd seen several bed-wetting cases before: A couple in basic training and one particularly rough one involving a young RAF Lieutenant in England during combat missions. Shame and ridicule were the hardest parts to deal with. Bed-wetting was awkward and embarrassing, but Hogan knew it was also a manifestation of stress. And his team had plenty of stress here, sneaking around Nazi Germany at night. He knew Newkirk that, at his orders, consistently took more risks than most, since his dicey talents put him in the front line of some of their most dangerous missions, and his strong command of German and his acting abilities made him a natural to take the lead.

Hogan blamed himself. Newkirk deserved understanding and support, not humiliation. He looked like his puppy had died. He'd have to keep an eye on him, maybe give him a break for a bit. He was regretting that diapers wisecrack, too, but coping with awkwardness was not Hogan's strong suit. Joking was easier, and Newkirk usually dished it back as well as anyone, his stutter vanishing whenever he was "on." Ugh. Why wasn't any of this in the officer's manual?

"I know you can't help it, and it's been a month since last time," Hogan whispered. He put an arm around Newkirk, hoping to jolly him out of it. "But we're running out of mattresses," he added give him a little chuck to the chin.

Newkirk gave a small laugh, so Hogan plowed ahead.

"But you know, Newkirk, there's something I've wanted to tell you for ages," he said in a confiding tone.

"What's that sir?" Newkirk asked as Hogan rose and walked to the stove to pour himself some coffee.

"Piss off," Hogan said to Newkirk in his best British accent. Newkirk just groaned and dropped his head to the table. He knew the Colonel was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn't helping. He was still stung by the nappies comment.

"Sorry, Newkirk," the Colonel said quickly, looking sheepish. "Poor taste again. I could never control the wisecracks."

"I don't mind the Joke, Gov. I deserve that," Newkirk answered. "It's just that your British accent is atrocious " he added cheekily.

Hogan and Carter laughed, and Newkirk joined in. But Carter still patted his back sympathetically. "Come on, buddy," he said. "Help me start the laundry. You know there's a lot you can do with peroxide and baking soda," he was nattering as they gathered up the wash.

**XXX**

_**Just a note about Newkirk's stutter in this story. It's not canon in the U.S. TV series - but it is on the German-dubbed version. I was intrigued to learn about how Newkirk was portrayed in the German version, and wanted to explore how a speech impediment would impact him as a member of Hogan's team. So this is a feature you will see in most of my stories. The upshot is he is still tough and moody.**_


	2. Chapter 2: Embarrassed

"Blimey, I'm 22. I should be over this by now. What the bloody hell is wrong with me?"

Corporal Peter Newkirk was silently berating himself as he leaned forward on a bench outside the camp recreation hall to have a think. It had been a rough morning, but a quick intervention by Colonel Hogan and Segeant Andrew Carter had saved Peter from profound embarrassment.

It was 1943 and in a POW camp in Germany, Peter Newkirk was fighting a personal battle with deep shame. For the third time in as many months, he had woken up drenched. "I'm a flipping bed-wetter," he lectured himself. "Disgusting." This had happened a lot when he was a child at home, a couple of times as a young man in the circus, and even once as a soldier in bootcamp. But not like this. Not in years. And certainly not in front of the best mates and best leader he'd ever had. They were probably all having a good laugh about him.

Peter was so miserable that he didn't notice the approach of his best mate, Corporal Louis LeBeau, until his brown boots appeared under Peter's nose. Peter looked up and managed a small smile. "Oh, 'allo," he said. "Come to tease me, 'ave you?" LeBeau hadn't been part of the cleanup crew, but he saw the pile of laundry that had suddenly materialized in the Colonel's office. Seeing that LeBeau understood immediately, Peter had swallowed hard and told him everything. He always confided in Louis.

LeBeau plunked himself down on the bench, arms tucked into his jacket. "I would never do that, mon pote," he said. "You know that."

Peter straightened up and leaned back into the wall of the rec room, but didn't look LeBeau in the eye until he felt an arm on his shoulder. Then he turned left to see LeBeau studying his expression. Peter looked about to see if anyone was nearby and, having decided there was not, leaned into LeBeau and sighed, resting his cheek on his friend's head.

They made an odd pair, the small Frenchman with the taller Englishman who was obviously the junior partner in this friendship. LeBeau kept his arm tight until Peter finally sat up. He lit a cigarette, handed it to LeBeau, and then lit up another one for himself. LeBeau watched as Peter took solace in his smoking ritual, taking a deep inhale as he placed the cigarette between his lips. He was calming down.

"Louis," he said, "I just feel so bloody em-em-embarrassed. I'm a m-man, not a little boy. I'm too old for this rubbish. I don't want to wake up wringing wet." He scrubbed hand over his face.

"Hmmm," LeBeau said. "Of course you are not a boy. You're a soldier, and a brave one, too." He paused for moment, "It doesn't happen because you are a child, Peter. We both know you're a man. It's for some other reason."

"Well, to hear Colonel 'ogan tell it, I j-j-j-j, j-j-j-just need to be more attentive to my toilet 'abits," Peter said with a snort. "'Nothing to d-d-d-drink after d-d-d-dinner. Use the latrine before bed time.' Like I'm a bleedin' baby. Cor, it's like he thinks 'e's mmme mum," Peter spat out.

"No, sorry, Colonel Hogan can't be your mum," LeBeau said. "That's my job." He poked Peter in the ribs and got an appreciative laugh.

"You're right about that m-mate," Peter said. "I reckon 'e's the papa in our 'appy little 'ome." Then his face fell. "But did I tell you 'e threatened to put mmme in nappies? 'E said it was a j-j-j-j-j. A j-j-j-j-j... A j-j-j-j..." He was stuck again and heaved out a big breath as LeBeau rubbed his back. "J-j-j-j-jo." God, he felt hopeless. Sometimes a single sound was like a brick wall. If he couldn't climb over it or barrel through it, he'd have to go around it. Peter gathered his breath again and zigzagged. "Well, 'e said 'e was k-kidding, but..."

As Peter wiped a sleeve across his face, LeBeau whispered, "That was not kind. The Colonel probably was embarrassed too and did not know what to say. He does not mean that."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. Louis was usually right and knew how to ease Peter's burden. The colonel was human, and that meant he wasn't always right, didn't it? Sometimes he said dumb things, didn't he? And he did apologize, before making that other awkward joke. Peter sighed and leaned his cheek on LeBeau's head again.

LeBeau took Peter's forearm and patted it. "What do YOU think causes it, Pierre? He added softly, "It's not always this hard for you to get words out, either."

Peter straightened back up. His face fell and he looked miserable. Whenever that happened, LeBeau knew a confession was coming.

"I think it's whatever's 'appening in mmmmme loaf, Louis," Peter said. He saw the puzzled look on LeBeau's face, and he tapped his head with a finger. "Mme loaf of bread. Me 'ead. I have too much trouble on mme mmmind. It's mmme thoughts wot causes it. I had it worse when I was a dustbin," he added. "Now his Cockney accent was kicking into high gear, too, LeBeau realized. Never a good sign if communication was the goal, because he could get pretty hard to understand fast. Dustbin? But at least Peter was talking.

"And what was on your mind?" LeBeau asked. Now Peter's face went blank, except for the angry lines around his eyes and forehead. "What is it, Pierre?"

"I 'ad another letter," Peter answered. "A letter from J-J-J-Jamie. His brother, who was somewhere in North Africa with the Army. He turned and looked at LeBeau. "Louis, I've got big trouble at 'ome. And it's all falling on Mavis because of me." He reached into his breast pocket and drew out an envelope stuffed with several letters. In the return address section, it was marked "J. Newkirk." He handed it to Louis.

Louis suddenly got it. Peter had lots of letters from his four sisters, his sisters in law, and his Granny, but not the men in his family. Yet last month there had been a letter from his father. The month before that, his oldest brother Michael, who was RAf ground crew. Or as Peter called them, M-m-m-m-Michael. D-d-d-d-Dad. J-J-J-J, J-J-J-Jamie. Louis had never heard Peter them say their names without stuttering. And sometimes he couldn't get Jamie's name out at all.

Peter plopped his check down on Louis' head again as Louis unfolded the letter. "Louis?" he said.

He looked. "Oui, Pierre?"

"Well, what if it happens again? I don't want to wake up like that again, mate" Peter said. "I bloody well wish I could mmmmmmake it stop."

Louis pulled him closer. "I know," he said. "I know." He looked up at his friend. "But I'm right here, Pierre. We'll talk to the Colonel, and together we'll think of something."

Just then a whistle blew, summoning the men back to the barracks. Peter stood and brushed himself off. Louis tucked the letter into his pocket. He'd read it later. He and Peter fell into a comfortable stride as they returned to their barracks.


	3. Chapter 3: Distraction

While most of the camp headed to the mess hall for lunch, Peter Newkirk and Louis LeBeau made their way back to Barracks 2. Inside Colonel Hogan's office they could hear the rest of their team.

"I squeezed out everything I could. It's still damp, but I think the peroxide and baking soda should do the trick with any odor," Andrew Carter was saying.

Then Kinch: "Wilson had a few of these sheets. Says he needs them now and then, when a guy is really in a bad way. I told him we had a special project, and might need to cut it up. I figured that was better than explaining what happened."

Hogan next: "Thanks, Kinch. I probably don't have to tell you this, but this stays among the five of us. No one else needs to know. Understood?" Carter and Kinch each responded with a crisp, "Yes, Sir."

As Louis busied himself at the stove, Peter hovered at the door, hearing the squeak and rustle of a waterproof sheet being stretched out in the next room. "It fits. Yeah, a little padding under it. It'll work, and we've got LeBeau's poncho if we need it," Kinch said. He patted the bed, producing a squeak, and Peter winced, knowing the special bedding was meant for him.

Hogan's voice was next. "OK, men, good job. I'm sure our light-fingered friend will appreciate it. A night or two in here and we'll know how big of a problem we're dealing with."

"I just hope we can settle him down, Colonel," Carter was saying.

"I know," Hogan said. "We have to. We can't afford the distraction. I need everyone 110%. I'll talk to him."

The trio emerged from the office, leaving the door open to air it out. Peter was sitting at the table, looking utterly downcast. Hogan was approaching him, words nearly out, when Schultz walked in and sniffed the air appreciatively.

"Mmm, Cockroach. What are you making?"

"_Boeuf Bourguignon_," Louis said. "Not that you're getting anything but fumes. We had only a couple ounces of bully beef to put in it, but between the carrots, the onions and the brown sauce, it's close enough." He slapped Schultz's hand away as he reached for the spoon.

Suitably chastened, Schultz turned to Peter, sitting alone.

"Why were you outside, Englander?" he asked. "I thought you were sick."

"My mum over here said the fresh air would do me good, Schultzie," Peter replied, puffing at a cigarette while gesturing to Louis, who grinned back.

In a flash, Hogan was at Peter's side, checking his forehead for a fever. He nodded approval and rested his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"It's a classic case of 'morning fever,' Schultz," Hogan said. "Right before he wakes up, that temperature soars sky high. Then he's fine all day long, but we've gotta keep an eye on him. He'll be in bad shape again tomorrow morning," he lied extravagantly.

"Oooh, it sounds serious," Schultz said.

"Very serious, Schultz. A little lie-in each morning is the key," Hogan continued. "We're moving him into my quarters tonight so he can rest properly." He gave a nod to Peter, who sighed and groaned.

"That seems very prudent. But Colonel Hogan, shouldn't he be in the infirmary? What if the others get sick?" Schultz said.

"Oh, well see, this is 'MANCHESTER morning fever,'" Carter contributed. "It's a mutant strain that's found only in the British Isles."

Hogan nodded in admiration at that bit of science fiction. "That's, that's right, Schultz. You see, living alone on that tiny island all these centuries has made the British people susceptible to things the rest of us are immune to," he embellished.

"And since Newkirk's the only Englishman in here, the rest of us will be just fine, Schultzie," Kinch added. "Don't worry, it won't spread."

"But he was outside doing laundry! Should he be exerting himself?" He grabbed Peter by the arm. "Come, Englander. You should see your medic about this."

"No, no, Schultz," Louis interjected, arriving on Schultz's other side and unlatching his hand from Peter's arm. "The laundry's therapeutic. See, when you put your hands in a cold tub of water, it, um, it um…"

"It helps to lower your core temperature, Schultzie," Carter supplied. "That's crucial for healing." He nodded, wide eyed.

"And anyway, Schultz, last time I checked, Arrington, Blount and Mosby-Smythe were in the infirmary with the flu," Hogan added. "You know, Redcoats. If we throw Newkirk in there with them in their weakened state, pretty soon all the English guys in camp will be dropping like dominoes. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?"

"Cor, Schultzie," Peter interjected. "I know we're enemies, but I never thought you wanted to k-k-k-kill me. I'm so d-d-d-disappointed." He coughed pathetically.

"Sorry, Newkirk. Of course I don't want to kill you. Just because we're enemies doesn't mean we can't be friends." He looked around the barracks, in search of a way to change the subject, and quickly found one.

"There's so much laundry," Schultz observed. Blankets and sheets were draped everywhere, along with odds and ends of clothes.

"Well, cleanliness is next to godliness, Schultz," Kinch put in.

"And when you've got Manchester morning fever, you sweat through everything. The hidrosis is the beginning of the end, though, Schultzie," Carter added. He scratched his head thoughtfully. "Though some people would say it's the end of the beginning. There's a vigorous debate about that in the medical community, you know…"

Hogan and Kinch simultaneously quirked their eyebrows. Carter was really on a roll.

Peter was less impressed. Oh, wrap it up, Andrew, he thought from his vantage point at the table. This could go on all afternoon. Never one to tolerate being upstaged, Peter decided it was time to improvise by faking a swoon. He flailed over the table, coming to rest on his outstretched arms, but only after he sent his Klim coffee mug clattering to the floor. "Blimey, I think my temperature's back up," he said, groaning. "Help, Schultzie," he called, flopping backwards into the Sergeant's belly.

It took Schultz, LeBeau and Kinch to steady Peter at the table. They arranged him with his head resting on his criss-crossed arms while Carter fanned him with a girlie magazine.

"Please, put him to bed, Colonel Hogan," Schultz said, patting Peter's back. "_Und Gott in Himmel_, keep him inside. I have five children, and I assure you, he should not be out." He looked sadly at Peter as prepared to leave, as if they might never be reunited. "Rest, Englander," he said, inhaling a lungful of _boeuf bourguignon_ on his way out.

Well, that was good fun for all. As Schultz was dispatched, the men settled at the table for lunch, forgetting the morning's misadventures as they rehashed their mischief. But as cleanup began, Peter found himself excused from KP and pulled aside for a private chat with the Colonel.

Hogan closed the office door behind him. "You're in here with me tonight Newkirk," he began. "We got the mattress cleaned up and ready just in case."

"I 'eard," Peter replied sullenly, his back to the door. "But it won't happen again, Sir."

"You don't know that," Hogan said, leaning into his desk with his arms crossed. "Come. Sit."

Peter sighed, but did as he was told. He perched on the Colonel's desk chair while Hogan stood before him. He hung his head and waited for the Colonel to start.

"Any idea why it's happening, Newkirk? Be honest with me," Hogan said.

"I told you, if I knew why, I would stop if, wouldn't I? Who would want to wake up wringing wet if they had any choice at all?" Peter replied.

Hogan decided to interpret that tone as frustrated, not disrespectful, though it was a close call. "So according to your records…"

"My records, Sir?!" Peter shot back. He was truly mortified now.

"Yes. According to your records, it happened once in boot camp, after a visit from your brothers," Hogan said. "I'm sorry. I had to ask. It's disruptive, Newkirk. We can't afford to have you all worked up over whether you're going to be caught. We're too busy hiding this whole operation from the Germans. We don't need an extra layer of complexity."

"Now I'm 'an extra layer of complexity,' am I?" Peter snapped. "Then put me out with the rubbish."

"That's not what I'm saying," Hogan said quietly. "You're a valuable member of this team. We've got to get this thing under control, Peter. The operation could be in jeopardy if we can't. But I need your cooperation. Now, let's..."

Peter didn't wait to be dismissed. He just up and bolted.

XXX

Half an hour later, Peter was tracked down by Kinch, who found him chain smoking in the privacy of the shower hut while throwing his pencil sharpener into the dirt floor again and again.

"Mumblety-peg," Kinch said, as Peter sank the knife nearer and nearer to the edge of his foot with each toss.

"Just so," Peter replied, flinging the knife down again. "A game of daring, skill and precision."

"You're good at it," Kinch said. _Thunk_ went the blade again.

"Well, one must try," Peter said in his best upper-crust voice. "I've 'ad practice, mate. Something I could do by myself." Kinch watched wordlessly until Peter spoke up again.

"My stupid brother once threw the knife straight through his foot and spent a mmonth in the poor ward fighting off an infection. The thick bastard survived anyway." Another _thunk_.

"That had to hurt like hell," Kinch said.

"Yeah, but he won by default, didn't he? Them's the rules, so 'e was happy. Of course, I was the lucky little sod who got to pull the knife out with mmmmme teeth that time," Peter said. _Thunk._

"You're joking, right?" Kinch said, feeling flushed at the horror of what Peter was describing. He'd played mumblety-peg as a boy, too, but never saw a kid get impaled. Most kids were too chicken to aim that close.

"No, I'm not," Peter said with a laugh. "I came in last; I pulled it out with me teeth. That's 'ow the game's played, innit? Anyway, it d-d-didn't help that we didn't have shoes in the summer. But in the end, it didn't mmatter. 'is foot got better and 'e resumed kicking the shit out of me within a couple mmonths. I 'ardly missed a bruise, really." His voice was thick with bitterness. He added softly, "I musta been six. He would have been, oh, 12 maybe 13." _Thunk._

"Michael or Jamie?" Kinch added. God, if he ever met these guys they would never forget his name or the shape of his fist. He had a younger brother himself, and couldn't fathom what they'd done to theirs.

"Mmmmm, mmmmmm, mmmmm," Peter began to hum and grunt. "Mmmm. Mmmmmmmmm." His face contorted as he tried and failed to push through the sound. "Oh, the first bloody fucker," he screamed, throwing the knife down hard.

Kinch watched the bubble of blood oozing from Peter's boot. Peter just stared.

"Oh bloody, hell," he said. "I won."


	4. Chapter 4:Trouble

"You're an idiot, you know that?" Sergeant Wilson was saying as he daubed iodine on the puncture wound in Peter's left foot. "Quit squirming. Carter watered it down. It's not that bad."

"Oh, really? Would you like to try pouring iodine on your own wound and find out how it feels? Because I have my knife right here," Peter replied, reaching behind him into the neck of his sweater.

Hogan had the knife as soon as Peter extracted it. "Sorry, Soldier," he said. "It needs a good cleaning, and then it goes into safekeeping until you calm down." He handed it off to Kinch, saying, "Take care of this, will you, Kinch?"

Kinch took the still-bloody knife, tucked it into his voluminous field jacket, and said "Will do, Sir. See you all back at the hut." He patted Peter on the back, earning a grateful look.

Wilson was sitting on a stool in front of the injured man, who was perched on an examination table in the infirmary. He grabbed Peter's foot more firmly. "Just stop it," he said, sounding irritated. "No moving. Sulfa," he said to Carter, who was at his elbow. He began sprinkling the yellow powder onto the wound.

"You're lucky it's a shallow wound. You just hit a vein," Olsen was saying as he wrapped the foot. "You're current on your tetanus shot, but you could use a booster. I'll see what we have in stock. Or we might need a drop, Sir," he said, with a nod toward Hogan, who nodded back, arms crossed in front of him.

Wilson patted the foot. "OK, get out of here," Wilson told Peter, handing him a pair of crutches. "Hold the foot up when you walk. No boot until a good scab has formed. And for God's sake, try to stay out of trouble, Newkirk. I swear, you give me more work than any other 10 guys in this camp."

Peter hobbled between Carter and Colonel Hogan on his way back to Barracks 2. He settled at the bench, back to the table, and LeBeau pressed a warm cup into his hand. It was tea, precious tea.

"Who made it?" Peter said suspiciously.

"Don't worry, it wasn't me," LeBeau responded with a smile. He cocked a thumb at the freckle-faced American behind him. "Hanrahan. Irish parents." Hanrahan waved nervously.

Peter grunted, sipped, then visibly relaxed. "Oh, marvelous," he said, nearly cooing. "Well done, Frankie me lad," he told Hanrahan. Probably just a year or two younger than Peter, Hanrahan was assigned to Barracks 2 and sometimes napped there during the day. But he spent his nights in the infirmary, assisting Olsen as an overnight orderly.

The men in the barracks were settling into a easy camaraderie now that Peter was back, relatively calm, and apparently not too injured. Except for one person, who stood, arms crossed, a frown on his face. Finally he strode across the room to his office.

"In my office when you're done, Corporal," Hogan commanded over his shoulder. "And I expect that to be in 10 minutes or less."

XXX

Peter Newkirk knew it wouldn't do to waste any time. Five minutes later, he was rapping at Hogan's door. Upon hearing "enter," he stepped inside.

"Stand at attention, Corporal," Hogan said as Peter moved closer. Peter stopped and assumed the position, arms straight and held to the sides. Forearm tucked behind the hipbone. Shoulders down and back, eyes open and still. He knew he was in for it now.

Hogan stood and paced back and forth in front of Peter. "Heels closer together," he said. "Eyes forward." Peter corrected his positions. Hogan sat back down while Peter stood for 15 minutes. Finally, without even looking up from his work, Hogan commanded, "Parade rest, Corporal. And don't let me see you slouch." Bandage or no bandage, Newkirk was going to be held to some discipline right now; Hogan would see to it.

Peter's right foot stayed in place while he drove his aching left foot out 10 inches and into the ground. His arms simultaneously swung behind him, back of right hand in palm of left, right thumb crossed over left. Fingers straight and together.

Fifteen more minutes went by before Hogan finally stood and stepped up to Peter. "Sit down, Corporal."

"Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir," Peter said. "I wanted to explain, Gov..."

"I didn't give you permission to speak," Hogan said. "Just sit."

Hogan wasn't a by-the-books officer, and Peter had never experienced strict discipline from him, though he was quite familiar with it from his RAF service. He'd been in plenty of trouble before.

Hogan took a seat opposite Peter, then dropped his head into his hand, scrubbing his face. "All right," he said. "First of all, for that little stunt before, 30 days of KP in the mess hall, morning and noon as soon as Wilson says you're fit. Our mission is the only reason you're not getting nights too, Corporal. And don't you ever walk away from me again unless I dismiss you. Understood?

"Understood, Sir," Peter replied.

"How's your foot?" Hogan asked.

"No complaints, Sir," Peter replied. It wasn't really throbbing too badly.

Hogan nodded his head. "Good, good. Now, level with me. Did you do that on purpose, Newkirk?"

"What? Well, why would I,…?"

Hogan cut him off. "Watch your tone, Corporal. Now try that again before I Iose my patience."

"No, Sir, I did not stab my foot on purpose, Sir. I promise you it was an accident," Peter said, looking terrified. "Sir," he added in a hurry.

"All right. Relax, Newkirk. Don't do that again. I can't improve on what Wilson had to say. You are a real idiot sometimes," Hogan said.

"Idiot, Sir, yes, Sir," Peter agreed. :"Sorry, Sir."

"Dismissed," Hogan said. "And I want you back here at 2100 hours to get ready for bed. I want to make sure you have some privacy just in case..."

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir," Peter said as he hobbled off.

Hogan watched Newkirk leave, shaking his head in frustration. He'd let Newkirk get away with a lot over the past year, but he couldn't tolerate insubordination, even if it was over something personal and embarrassing to the man. Once discipline breaks down, the unit can't do its job, he told himself.


	5. Chapter 5: Trust

Leaving the Colonel's office, Peter found the common room empty. Having had one unfortunate experiment with solitude already today, he decided to find his friends. He grabbed his coat and crutches and hobbled outside the barracks. LeBeau and Carter were in a small cluster of men with a soccer ball. LeBeau and a few other British and European prisoners were patiently demonstrating basic dribbling, trapping and passing moves for a handful of curious Americans.

Kinch was at the far right corner of the Barracks building, looking every bit the idler as he smoked a cigarette and cast his eyes around lazily. He was anything but idle, of course. He was surveying the compound, monitoring the Krauts when Peter sidled up to him. Kinch handed him a cigarette and lit it for him.

They leaned there together, Peter with his bandaged foot looking increasingly grimy. Kinch looked around him and found an ash bucket. Overturning it, he plopped it in front of Peter. "Foot up," he said. "Wilson's going to kill you when he sees the state of that bandage. What have you been doing, walking through mud? You've got to keep it clean, Peter." He shook his head and muttered under his breath, "Death wish."

Peter didn't care to explain that Hogan had just kept him on his feet at attention, so he changed the subject.

"Look at Carter. Blimey, 'e's never going to get the 'ang of trapping and passing if 'e doesn't get 'is toe up," Peter said with a grin. "Cor, I could show 'im a nice long pass if I hadn't put me bloody knife through mmmmme foot."

"What else did the Colonel have to say?" Kinch asked.

Peter ignored the question. "At least it was only my left foot. I'll be right as rain in a week."

"Newkirk!" Kinch said.

"What?" he replied.

"Colonel Hogan. What did he have to say to you?" Kinch looked serious now. He never pulled rank because he didn't have to. Peter and the others had learned for themselves why Hogan trusted Kinch to make decisions in the best interest of their mission. He could see right now that Kinch, having brought a wounded Peter back to the fold, expected a full briefing.

"'e, um, 'e, um, 'e um," Peter began. Oh God, not this again, he thought. I sound like a donkey. All right, deep breath. He exhaled and looked Kinch straight in the eye. "'e made me stand at attention for 15 minutes, then on parade rest for 15 minutes more," he explained.

"In his office?" Kinch asked. An eyebrow quirked up. He'd never known Hogan to use that technique. Boy, he must have been angrier than Kinch realized.

"Yes," Peter said. "An' 'e was just working at 'is desk the 'ole time. Proper drill sergeant 'e was," he said, adding, "No offense, Kinch. I just never saw 'im like that. Then 'e asked me if I did it on purpose," he said, waving at his foot.

"And you told him what?" Kinch inquired.

"I told 'im the truth! Of course I d-didn't d-do it on purpose!" Peter protested. He stopped and tried to interpret Kinch's expression. "You d-don't believe me, do you? Blimey, Kinch, I promise I never…"

"Calm down, Newkirk, I believe you," Kinch responded. "You just need to stop making things hard for yourself."

Peter felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "I'm not _trying_ to make things 'ard for myself, Kinch. Things _are_ 'ard. When you wake up drenched in your own p-piss and you can't face your mmmmmates and you can't clear your 'ead and you can't even get your bleeding words out without wanting to cry and you keep getting letters from 'ome and you know it's all your fault and there's still a fucking war to fight and you're letting d-d-d-down your side, things _are_ bloody 'ard."

It was Kinch's turn to look stunned. "C'mere," he said. Peter edged closer, his breath ragged from the outburst, and Kinch wrapped his arm around his shoulder. "Just breathe easy. I'm right here," Kinch said quietly as he felt the younger man lean into him ever so slightly. They stood that way for a while as Peter settled himself down and finally nodded, pulling out of Kinch's embrace.

"Sorry, Kinch, I don't know what came over mmme…" he began.

"Don't be," Kinch said gently. "Things are overwhelming sometimes. You can lean on me. Pete, I think I understood most of what you just said. But what letters are you talking about? And what is it you think is your fault?"

"I gave the letters to Louis to read," Peter said miserably. "I need 'is advice. I'd better ask 'im if 'e …"

"Who are the letters from?" Kinch asked.

"From them," Peter replied, hoping it would be enough. It wasn't so, he went on. "One from Mmmmmmichael. One from my father. One from J-J-J-J," Peter replied. "J-J-J-J…"

"Jamie," Kinch supplied.

With a look of relief, Peter nodded eagerly. "Mmmmaybe you would read them too, Kinch?" he said. "Tell me what to do."


	6. Chapter 6: Determimed

**NOTE, Please be aware that some very crude and violent imagery is used in the letters in this section. They describe some very nasty things that Peter's brothers are threatening him with, especially Jamie.**

Kinch was about to steer Peter inside to continue the conversation with Colonel Hogan when he looked up. The Colonel was standing at the door to the barracks, and by the horrified look on his face, he'd heard at least some of their conversation.

He nodded to Kinch and Peter, then stepped into the yard. He flagged down Olsen and told him to relieve Kinch in keeping watch. Then he waved LeBeau over, with Carter trailing along behind him. Kinch and Peter watched as Hogan leaned in to whisper to Louis, who suddenly looked surprised and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the letters.

"In my office, men," Hogan said quietly to his core team. "Now."

**XXX**

Hogan gathered the men around his desk, offering one of the two chairs to Peter. "You need to get off of that foot," he said, almost apologetically. Peter complied with a grateful, tight smile. His foot was throbbing.

Louis turned to Peter. "I've been carrying the letters in my pocket all day, _mon pote_. I'm sorry, there wasn't time to read them yet."

"'s all right, mate," Peter responded. "I was hoping, well, um, well, um, that it would be j-j-just us, but, well, um…"

Peter's hand was gripping the edge of the Colonel's desk. Hogan laid a calming hand over it, his thumb rubbing circles onto Newkirk's. "You don't _have_ to share it with all of us, Newkirk," he said. "It's up to you. But if you decide you want us all to know what's in the letters, well, we're a team. We all want to help you fix whatever's troubling you. Together."

Peter considered this, and finally nodded, looking directly into Hogan's eyes. Then he looked around at his other mates and said, "All right then. Just p-p-p-promise not to laugh at mmmmme." He took the crumpled envelope and laid a folded slip of paper on the desk. "This was the first one. Came about two mmm, mmmmonths ago."

Hogan took it out and read:

**XXX**

_Peter,_

_I was home on leave last week and saw Laura and her son Simon. Two and half years old now, he is. The strangest thing is he doesn't look a bit like our Jamie. Never has, now that I think of it. I look at Simon and I think he's the spitting image of our little Nancy._

_I'm sending along a picture. Fascinating, don't you think?_

_Michael_

**XXX**

"Laura is Jamie's wife, and Simon is their son?" Hogan asked. Peter nodded. "OK. And Nancy-is that Michael's daughter?"

Peter blushed and hung his head. He was working so hard to hold back tears that he could feel his nose starting to run. Finally, he looked up at Hogan. "Nnnnnnancy is mmmmm, mmmme," he said0. "It's what mmmy brothers call me. _Nancy boy_," he spat out. "A fairy. A queer."

"But you're not!" Carter protested.

"I bloody well know I'm not!" Peter snapped back. "But it doesn't stop them, does it? They've tormented mmmme that way mmmmy whole life!" LeBeau rested a hand on his back and gently made circles.

"All right, calm down, guys," Hogan said. "I'm sorry, Newkirk. I had to ask. There's a picture?"

Peter sighed. "In the envelope," he said.

Kinch reached in to find it, then passed it to Hogan. It was a small image of a baby boy, maybe two years old. Light hair, sparkling smile, bouncing in his mother's arms. The eyes were unmistakable, large, light and an unusual almond shape.

"Well, I do see a family resemblance, Newkirk," Hogan said. "But your brothers must look similar…"

"We don't look much alike, Sir. I favor me mum," Peter said.

"Wait, Newkirk. MIchael is saying Simon's _your_ kid?" Carter asked.

Newkirk sighed. "Yes, Carter, that's what 'e's saying."

"Well, how's that even possible? Laura's the kid's mom, and she's married to Jamie! They'd have to think you..." Carter was saying. Then he stopped, looking shocked. Peter hung his head.

Hogan cut Carter off before Peter could formulate an answer. "All right, what else is there?"

Peter pulled out the next folded paper. "From me old mmman," he said. "Got this last mmmonth."

**XXX**

_Peter,_

_I was down the pub last night and my old mate Mackey was thoroughly pissed. He got to talking and told me a thing or two about his daughter Laura. You know, the one what's married to your brother Jamie? Poor girl seems to be losing her mind. Turns out Jamie was quite rough with her ever since their Simon was born. Laura don't believe Jamie accepts Simon as his flesh and blood. Well, imagine having to wonder about a thing like that. If you were a man, you'd understand. Of course, now Jamie's been miles away in North Africa, so I can't see what fucking difference it would make. And he's a bit rough anyway, isn't he? It's just his way. Probably nothing to do with having another man up his wife's cunt. I supposed when the war ends and he's home, he can have a chat with Laura's lover boy. Then I imagine there will some sorting out to do. I know which horse I'll be betting on. Simon, the dirty little blighter, is living with Mavis now that Laura's spending half her time on a bender and the other half checked in at the Royal._

_Dad_

**XXX**

The men were stunned into silence by the sheer crudeness of the letter. Not one could imagine ever hearing those words from his own father.

"What a weird letter," Carter finally said. "I mean, you never hear from him, and then he writes to tell you … those things? What's his point?"

"Oh, 'e knows exactly what's 'e's doing," Peter mumbled.

"What's 'The Royal,' Newkirk?" Kinch asked.

"The Royal London Hospital in the East End. There's a mental ward. Laura was always a sensitive one. What Jamie's put her through... well..." He stopped, not knowing what else to say.

"What is she like, Newkirk? Laura, I mean?" Hogan asked.

"Oh, she's beautiful, Gov. Creamy skin, auburn curls, round blue eyes. And she's very kind. We were playmates as kids. How she ended up with my brother, I'll never understand." He pulled out the third letter. "This is the one that came from J-J-Jamie yesterday." Hogan took it up and read it out loud.

**XXX**

_Nancy,_

_Michael and Dad has been writing me. Michael was home on leave and saw Laura's kid for the first time since he was an infant. He's two and a half now and he's the spitting image of you, mate._

_The funny thing is, I don't remember even fucking that cow. She's nice to look at, but don't like it rough. So what's the point? I never wasted much time with her. I figured if she kept my meals on the table, yeah, I could give it to her now and then. I guess she was desperate enough to fuck a fairy like you._

_Well, if it turns out you fucked my wife and that this is your kid I've been supporting, there's going to be hell to pay, Missy. That kid can go to the fucking orphanage now for all I care. Mavis has been looking after the brat while Laura drinks and sobs to her old man. I told her to let Mavis keep him. Then you and your big sister can play dollies together when you come home, just like you used to when you were a little girl. And Laura's going to do what I tell her if she knows what's good for her._

_I'm going to sort you out when I get home. Or maybe Michael will run into you before then. I'm sure he'd have good ideas about how to explain where you went wrong. I'm sure he'd know exactly how to cut your balls off and shove them down your..._

There was more, but Hogan had gone pale and couldn't finish. By this point, Carter was puking into a wastebasket. LeBeau wasn't even attempting to cover up his tears. Kinch looked ready for hand-to-hand combat.

And Peter. He sat with his head hanging down, covering his ears, as LeBeau and Carter clung to him, offering comfort he couldn't receive. He was humiliated, emasculated. His mind was racing through the labels his brothers had taunted him with for years: Fairy. Nancy boy. Baby. Weakling. Queer. Dickless. Bedwetter. Little girl. He was thinking of how from the time he was small they groped him, teased him, pissed on him, wanked on him, kicked him, burned him, cut him. Awful abuses he could never speak out loud, even to his best friends. Peter was surrounded by his mates, yet he felt desperately alone.

Peter had seen Laura's unspeakable pain, because he knew the truth about Jamie. Out every night 'with the boys.' Home in the morning with white stains up and down his trousers. Women held little interest for Jamie except as conveniences. Laura was just a conquest, a testament to Jamie's masculinity. But night after night, he sought out knee-tremblers and God knows what else with other lads. Peter had spent his entire childhood swatting Jamie's hands and other parts away from him. He hadn't always succeeded.

So yes, Peter had comforted Laura and given her his love. They understood each other and Laura was so beautiful and needy. It made sense to him that he would take refuge in her arms, but how could it ever make sense to his friends, these men from normal, healthy homes? It wouldn't. They couldn't understand, Peter was sure. They must despise him.

Suddenly a caring voice was penetrating the thick fog of his mind, a voice that rarely used his first name but was doing so now. "Peter, I, I, don't know what to say about this. I can't believe you've been holding this ... violence ... inside. I never understood how hard it was," Hogan said. Peter sniffled and nodded and allowed Hogan to take him into a hug, oblivious to the other men who stood watching. Was he crying? Peter didn't know. He just knew he could have disappear into that embrace. Hogan held Peter there for a long moment, and Peter realized that yes, his face was wet. Finally, Hogan held him out at arm's length. "Just tell me one thing, Peter," Hogan said. "Were you intimate with Laura? Could Simon be your son?"

Peter met his eyes and didn't blink even as his tears continued to flow. "Yes, Sir, I was...w-w-with her. And 'is eyes are exactly like mmmine. Sir."

Hogan nodded somberly. He'd recognize those distinctive eyes anywhere, and Newkirk was acknowledgIng the affair. It had to be true. "All right then. We get the ministry involved."

"What? Why Sir?" Peter pleaded. He was flooded with anxiety at the thought of a government ministry stepping into a family matter. How would that possibly help solve anything with the three dangerous hotheads that were his closest male family members?

"Why? Because there is a credible threat to a valuable member of my team and his child. And we have to do this for Laura's sake. And what? Well, we're going to ask them to lock up Michael and Jamie for the duration." Hogan spoke with confidence, his voice strong. But as he pulled Peter back to his chest, the other members of the team could not miss the rapid gulps Robert Hogan made as he choked back his own tears. Carter, Kinch and LeBeau closed in around Hogan and Peter, locked together in one vast clutch.


	7. Chapter 7: An Ally

Their evening meal was a somber affair, as Peter's four closest team members gathered together, trying to absorb what he had been silently enduring. They all knew how some men talked, but the sheer vulgarity of Peter's letters from home was shocking. How could his father and brothers say such filthy things about Laura? How could they berate and humiliate Peter with nicknames and cutting comments? How could they be so hateful toward a vulnerable child of 2?

Hogan was quiet, struggling to reconcile the Peter he knew—clever, tough and resilient—with what he was now learning about the environment he had grown up in. His stutter suddenly made sense as a response to constant taunting, teasing, and terror. So, suddenly, did his embarrassing bedwetting episodes. Holding his demons at bay must have taken every ounce of Peter's considerable inner strength. Who could be surprised if every now and then the vulnerable child within Peter broke through the surface of hard-gained self-control?

The other men asked a few gentle questions. Did he love Laura? He wasn't sure it was love, but yes, he cared for her. Was he excited about being a father? Not really. He didn't feel like a father, and he was terrified of the responsibility. But he thought his little nephew – no, son – was a cute little chap the first time they met before he was shot down, and he couldn't wait to hold him again someday. What could they do to help him? Help Mavis.

"Colonel, is there some way we can talk to Mavis? Find out how she's mmmmanaging with the baby? And with Laura?" Peter inquired. He felt overwhelming guilt. His sister had selflessly raised her younger brothers and sisters after their mother died and now was raising his child. And sweet Laura. He should never have touched her, but she was so fragile and needy and beautiful, and he was so weak.

"We're going to try to do that, Newkirk," Hogan said reassuringly. "We'll get help for all of them. I promise."

Peter nodded, feeling his worries about his family easing even as his fears about his other problem intensified. He mustn't drink too much before bedtime. He would be sleeping in the Colonel's room tonight and he didn't want a repeat of the morning's embarrassment.

Soon enough, 2100 hours had rolled around, and Peter was in Hogan's office, undressing for bed. His absence from the main barracks was prompting questions he hadn't prepared for.

"What are you sleeping in there for, Newkirk?" Addison asked when Newkirk emerged to put his uniform away.

"The Colonel told me I had to," he replied truthfully.

"What for? Something going on between you two that we need to know about?" Addison wisecracked. Peter's control dissolved in a second. He was lunging for Addison's throat and had him in a chokehold when Addison head-butted him, triggering a gush of blood from Peter's nose. It took Hogan, Kinch and Olsen to pry Peter loose. Carter, meanwhile, was settling Louis onto a bunk to prevent him from fainting.

"Cripes, Newkirk," Addison said as he clutched his throat. "You need to have your head examined."

"You need to watch your bloody mouth," Peter spat back. Hogan wrestled him into his office as Kinch hovered over Addison, ready to deliver a stern talk as soon as Peter was out of hearing range. Olsen had been dispatched for the medic, Sergeant Wilson.

Hogan was standing behind a seated Peter at the desk and holding a cold washcloth to his tipped-up nose when Wilson arrived.

"Addison's going to have some bruises, but he'll be fine," Wilson told Hogan. Then he turned to Peter and shook his head. "Didn't I just see you about"—he checked his watch—"seven hours ago?"

"Sorry, Wilson," Peter said, and it would have taken a hard heart to hear the response as anything but genuine.

"OK, Newkirk. But what the hell were you doing with your hands around Addison's throat?" Wilson asked. He moved the Colonel's hands aside. "Let me see."

"Something he said," Peter replied.

"Hmmm," Wilson said. "It's bleeding from the inside, but you've also got a cut right here," he said, touching a corner of Peter's nose. "It'll hurt like hell to stitch it, so let's see if pressure will help. Stop squirming." Kinch had just stepped silently in the door, so Wilson waved him over as he put together a new pad of gauze and showed him where he should hold it.

"Foot up on the desk," he instructed. "Ugh, how did you get this so damn dirty, Newkirk? I don't want you getting an infection. What did I tell you?"

"Sorry," Peter squeaked through pinched nostrils. Wilson looked up and saw to his surprise that Peter was tearing up. He decided to ease up on the critical tone and soften his voice.

"OK, nothing we can't handle. I'm going to clean it up and then we'll get you to your bunk," Wilson said. "You might want to swap with Carter, though. That top bunk will be hard to reach until your foot's better."

Peter berated himself for not thinking of that earlier when Addison had asked about the unusual sleeping arrangements. He nodded but then Hogan chimed in. "He's in here with me tonight, Wilson."

"Good plan," Wilson said absently. "All right, the foot's clean. Luckily the dirt on that bandage was superficial. But I mean it, Newkirk, you've got to stay off that foot and keep it clean or you could be looking at an infection." He continued wrapping the foot in a clean bandage.

"Yessir," Peter sniffed, looking at Colonel Hogan.

"It's my fault, Wilson," Hogan said. "I had him in here at attention earlier today."

"Well, a little standing at attention never did any soldier any harm," Wilson deadpanned without looking up from his task.

"… for 30 minutes," Hogan said.

Wilson stopped his bandaging, and looked puzzled at Hogan before gathering the right words. "Well, I wouldn't recommend doing that again, Sir. Three minutes on his feet, tops. He needs to rest that injury." He stood and lifted up the gauze that Kinch was holding in place. "Better. It's clotting. I'm going to bandage it just so you don't rub at it," he told Peter.

"OK," Wilson finally told Peter. "Let's get you into bed, young man." He and Kinch got on either side of Peter as Hogan pulled back the blankets on the bottom bunk. As they sat him down, a whoosh of air escaped from under the waterproofing, and the rubber sheet squeaked.

"Expecting a flood?" Wilson joked. At that, Peter's face turned bright red. Hogan crossed his arms and looked down, and Kinch thrust his hands deep into his jacket. Oh, Wilson realized. Yes, you are. The question unleashed the tears that had been threatening for the past several minutes and building all day.

Wilson knelt down to look Peter in the eyes. "Newkirk?" he asked. "What's going on?" No answer. "Why do you need a waterproof mattress cover, son? Are you wetting your bed?" he asked softly.

Head down, Peter nodded and swiped at his eyes. "Yes," he finally said. He gulped a bit as his tears flowed.

"OK, buddy," Wilson said. "It's OK, Newkirk. You're not alone. It happens sometimes, even to soldiers. Especially when there's a lot of pressure. But it'll get better, you'll see." He helped him settle into his back and continued the soothing patter as he covered him gently.

"It's not normal," Peter muttered, his face wet with tears. "_I'm_ not normal. I'm too old to keep wetting myself like a baby."

"You'd be surprised, Newkirk. Bed-wetting is more common than you think. And there's absolutely nothing abnormal about you. Just sleep tonight. Everything will look better in the morning," Wilson promised. Peter, exhausted from an emotional day, listened intently as Wilson kept up a soft patter, wanting desperately to accept his reassurances. The hitch in his breath evened out and Peter quickly drifted off to Wilson's soothing refrain of "It's OK. Shhh. Close your eyes. Accidents happen" as Hogan and Kinch sat vigil.

Once Peter was breathing deeply and evenly, Wilson turned to the senior members of the core team. "Why didn't you tell me he was wetting the bed when you came to see me for the sheet, Kinch? Or when he hurt his foot? I could have talked to him then," he asked Kinchloe quietly.

Kinch shrugged and looked apologetic . "We didn't want to embarrass him, Wilson," he said. "He was having such a hard time."

"Embarrass him, or embarrass yourselves?" Wilson asked. He'd seen quite a big of bed-wetting during his time in the service, and especially as a prisoner of war. It usually occurred with men who were new to camp or who were rushed to the infirmary with injuries or illness, and sometimes it came out of nowhere. Whether the bed-wetting patient arrived at the infirmary alone ir with a barracks-mate, there was one common denominator: No one wanted to do more than hint at what was happening. The shame was overwhelming, especially when the evidence surfaced the next morning.

"It doesn't embarrass me, Wilson," Kinch snapped back. "It's not happening to _me_. It's happening to Pete."

"Then stop being too embarrassed to say what 'it' is! Bed-wetting. Eneuresis. You're all ashamed to say it, and you better believe he picks up on that," Wilson said, gesturing to Peter, who was now snoring softly in the dim light of the Colonel's office, the bandage on the corner of his nose fluttering gently with each exhale.

"Now we're supposed to_ talk_ about how a grown man is wetting the bed?" Hogan scoffed. "What are we supposed to say? 'Oh, good job, you had a dry night!' Like he's five years old?"

"Where'd you hear that, Colonel," Wilson asked.

"It doesn't _matter_ how I heard it!" Hogan protested. "We're just trying to protect Newkirk from embarrassment. You should have seen this team pull together this morning to get his mattress cleaned up and his laundry done so his buddies woudn't have to know."

"His buddies. Sounds like you know something about that?"Wilson inquired.

"It's not about me!" Hogan snapped harshly.

"I was 8 last time I wet the bed," Wilson said. "How old were you, Colonel?"

Hogan let out a deep sigh. "Twelve, all right? It didn't happen a lot. But it was the most mortifying thing in my life because I never knew when I was going to wake up that way."

"Mortifying," Kinch said. "That's the word you used with Newkirk this morning."

"OK, fine. The cat's out of the bag. Big deal. I was 12 ... not 22!" Hogan said, waving a hand at Peter.

"Right," Wilson said. "And you're ashamed of him for having this ..."

"Weakness," Hogan said. "Affliction. I know how he feels."

"Does he know that?" Wilson asked.

"Of course not! I can't even believe I'm telling you and Kinch! Why would I tell Newkirk?" Hogan said, exasperated.

"Because it would help him. It would ease his shame. He would know you had felt what he is feeling. That would make it better," Wilson said. "Good God, Colonel, where's your empathy? He's one of your best men."

"Not when he's dripping wet, he isn't," Hogan countered. Whether it was a misplaced wisecrack or a moment of painful truth, the comment stung everyone who heard it, including the speaker, who hung his head the minute the words were out. Hogan was just glad Peter was sound asleep.

Kinch rose to his feet. "Colonel, you don't mean that. Newkirk's a good man no matter what. And you know the hell he's been through today."

Hogan exhaled. He was embarrassed by his disclosure and his outburst, and felt horribly disloyal to his young Corporal."No, you're right, Kinch. Newkirk's not just one of the best. He's irreplaceable. And I do know how he feels when he wakes up that way."

"Wet," Wilson said. "You can say it, Colonel. When he wakes up wet."

"All right. I know how he feels when he wakes up wet, because I've felt that way too," Hogan said. "I told him I was tempted to order a batch of diapers," he admitted.

Wilson just shook his head. "You realize that's not about him, Colonel. That's you. That's your shame speaking."

Hogan got it. "Yes. I see that. But, I mean, it's been 23 years for me. He wasn't even born last time I ..." That drew him up short, and he clamped his hand over his mouth as he looked down at Peter in his repose. "Oh, wow. He wasn't even born. It's been 23 years."

"It's a long time to cling to your shame, Colonel," Wilson said gently. "Kinch, what did you mean about 'what he's been through today'?"

Hogan was lost in thought as Kinch briefed Wilson on the events that had transpired in the evening. Finally, he looked up at Wilson.

"I'll talk with him in the morning, Sergeant," Hogan said firmly. "I'll tell him I really do understand. And thank you, Wilson. I think you just helped me cast a beam out of my eye."

Wilson nodded. "Can I join you for that conversation, Sir?" he asked.

"Yes, Wilson. That would be a big help," Hogan said.


	8. Chapter 8:Confession

It was around 4 AM when Colonel Hogan heard a rustling sound in the bunk below him. It took him a moment to remember that Newkirk was in his room tonight. He lit his flash light and left it on his bunk pointing at the ceiling and climbed down from his bunk to check on his roommate.

"You all right?" Hogan asked.

"'mmmalright, Sir,"Peter replied. "Mmmmmy foot woke me up."

"It hurts?" Hogan asked.

"Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir," Peter responded.

"I'll get you some aspirin," Hogan replied. He found the pills and poured a glass of water, handing it over to Peter, who drank it down gratefully. "Newkirk, as long as you're awake, it would be a good idea to …"

"Pee, Sir. I know," Peter said. He started to get up, but Hogan was placing a chamber pot in his hands before he could get up. Yawning, Peter stayed perched on the edge of the bed and took care of business. Hogan took the pot back from him and tucked it under the bed until morning. Everything would be all right now.

An hour and a half later, Hogan's alarm went off, and he was out of his bunk again, quietly shaving and dressing while Peter slept. At 6:15, he leaned a hand down onto Peter's bunk to wake him up, and pulled his hand back quickly. The sheets were soaking wet. He stood back up, feeling frantic. How did this happen? That tiny drink of water with the aspirin?

As Hogan stood there in shock, Peter was slowly waking up, stretching and yawning sweetly. The warm, wet sensation was making him happy until his eyes snapped open and he realized what had happened. And not only that, but the Colonel was standing right there above him, looking shocked. He knew.

"Nooooo," Peter moaned as he came to with a jolt. "Sorry, Sir, I'll clean it, Sir, I don't know what happened, I'm so sorry…

"Newkirk, stop," Hogan said. "I understand."

"No, Sir, no, you're too kind, but I made a mess and I'll clean it up and I won't do it again, Sir, I swear I won't."

"Newkirk," Hogan said. "It's OK. We'll get you cleaned up and that's that. Newkirk... Peter... I used to wet my bed, too."

"What, Sir? You, Sir?" Peter said, astounded at the confession.

"Yes, until I was 12, and, well honestly, a couple times after that. It happened the month before I left for West Point, actually. I was almost your age, and I was terrified it would happen there," Hogan admitted. "Look, get undressed. I'm going to get your dry clothes. We've can take care of the sheets later. We've got this."

Hogan stepped into the main room, his dress shirt still unbuttoned. "Good morning, _mon Colone_l," LeBeau greeted him. "Coffee for you?"

'That would be great, LeBeau, but first I need your help rounding up Newkirk's things," Hogan replied. LeBeau's eyebrows shot up, and Hogan nodded. "A towel or two would be helpful," he whisperered to LeBeau. "Can you bring them?"

"_D'accord, mon Colonel_, I'll be along in a moment," LeBeau responded.

Hogan found Peter stripped and shivering in front of his sink as he tried to wash himself clean with a meager trickle of cold water. "Don't," Hogan said. "We'll ask LeBeau for some warm water." He pulled his bathrobe out of his locker and helped Peter put it on. It would have been a luxurious item anywhere, but in a POW camp, it was incomparably sumptuous. Peter had never worn anything like it, and he was grateful and awed, but a little scared of staining it with his pee. "But I mmmmmight get it smelly, Sir," he protested. "Until, you know, I can c-c-clean up."

That was when LeBeau entered. Hogan didn't even have to ask; he came bearing warm water in a basin and a sponge and towel. "For you, Pierre," he said kindly. He set them down before stepping back out and returning with clean, dry clothes under one arm and a bucket of cold, bleachy water under the other. He took Peter's wet nightshirt, underpants, and sheet, and immersed them for a soak then quickly wiped down the bed and made it up. The waterproof sheets had done the trick.

LeBeau turned to see Peter cleaning himself up. He stepped over to the basin to wring out a fresh washcloth and handed it to him. "Thanks, mate," Peter said gratefully. He finished cleaning between his legs and then towelled off and put on his shorts. "Louis, I, I, I don't now why it happened again. Is it going to keep happening?" He was imploring the one man who understood him inside out.

Louis shook his head and handed Peter his trousers. "The bed wetting will stop soon, Pierre, you'll see. Once things settle down." Colonel Hogan, standing nearby, nodded in agreement.

"I'm just so tired of hiding and sneaking around," Peter said sadly as he pulled on his blue turtleneck. "How are we going to explain another big load of laundry to all the lads in the barracks?"

Wilson was at the door. 'Who says you have to, Newkirk?" he asked.

Kinchloe was the next to pop his head in. "Roll call in five minutes, guys," he said.

"Wilson, Newkirk, let's meet back in here when roll call is over. We'll figure something out," Hogan said.

"Louis too, please, Sir," Newkirk said with a sad smile at his best friend. "I want Louis with me."

"Of course," Hogan said with a sincere smile. "Louis too. And anyone else you want."

XXX

In the end, the entire core team of Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau, Carter and Kinchloe squeezed into Hogan's office with Wilson. Peter spoke first.

"I reckon you all know from the c-c-commotion in here that I wet my bed again last night," Peter said, head hanging low, one hand behind his neck. "I didn't think I would. I mmmmmmean, I did everything the C-C-Colonel suggested, even got up to pee in the wee hours," he said, adding with a small grin, "no pun intended. But anyway, I still peed in my bed. I'm not sure how to stop and, and, and, and" - he stopped to regulate his breathing - "and I'm afraid I'm turning into a big headache for all of you."

A chorus of protests rose up as he finished, as his friends talked over one another in their eagerness to reassure him. "No, Pierre, it's not your fault." "Aw, buddy, don't worry!" "It'll get better, pal." Peter smiled weakly as LeBeau wrapped a protective arm around him.

Then Wilson spoke up. "Newkirk, the Colonel briefed me on your other situation, too. I don't need to tell you it's completely shocking and disturbing that you are experiencing such awful threats from members of your family. How are you holding up?"

"I, uh, I, uh, I, uh," Peter began. "I'm s-s-s-, s-s-s-, s-s-s-." His struggle to speak told everyone what they needed to know. Sometimes they could tell what he was trying to say, but this time he was so unhinged that no one had an idea of what he might be thinking or feeling, other than terror. Peter was hyperventilating and his eyes were wild as he attempted to speak again. "I'm s-s-s-sorry I c-c-c-c-c-aused s-s-s-s-so mmmmmmmmmmmmuch trouble," he finally got out.

"PIerre," Louis was assuring him. "You made a very human mistake by becoming involved with Laura. But something beautiful has come of that-a little boy who is your son. And you are not responsible for the awful things Jamie, Michael and your father have said and done to poor Laura. Or to Simon. Or to you."

"He's gonna be a lucky little boy, to have you for a dad," Carter said warmly.

"Thanks, chaps," Peter said softly. "I want to be a good father to 'im, if I can figure out 'ow."

"You'll learn how, Pierre," Louis said. "I am sure of it."

Hogan jumped in. "Newkirk... Peter... , Wilson and I have been talking. We're both pretty sure that the bedwetting will subside once these other worries get under control. And we're going to help you get help for Mavis, Laura, and Simon, OK?"

Peter was all big eyes as he nodded his head, desperately wanting Colonel Hogan to be right.

"And about the bedwetting, Peter," Hogan continued. "Like I told you before, I wet my bed for a long time too. Quite a bit until I was 12. And a few times after that, and when I left for the academy I was terrified it would happen again. But Peter, it got better as I got older."

"It got better for me too, Sir, after I turned 15. I reckon I'm just a late bloomer compared to you," Peter said sulkily. He was trying to be positive, but he didn't know another grown man who wet his bed and even knowing that Hogan had suffered the same problem didn't erase his shame.

"Well, that's part of the answer, Newkirk," Wilson said. "It's already a lot better. We're going to help you solve the problem at home and then you won't wet the bed so much. You'll see," Wilson said. "You have to trust us on this."

"I don't want to wet the bed _less_! I want to _stop_ wetting the bed!" Newkirk said angrily. "I mean I stayed dry for two 'ole years until all this started 'appening!"

"OK," Wilson said. "Maybe that will happen. And maybe it won't. But there's one thing you can change, and that's how you think about it."

Everyone looked skeptical at that. "I mean it," Wilson said. "Newkirk, do you deliberately wet the bed?"

"Of course not!" Peter said. "What does everyone ask me that same stupid question? I would _never_ do this on purpose! I don't want to wake up wet!"

"Yes, but do you think maybe you _like_ to wet the bed, deep down inside? Maybe in some unconscious way you want to do it?"

"Of course not! What a stupid question! Colonel, tell him it's a stupid question!" Peter protested.

"Shhh. Let Wilson continue," Hogan said reassuringly. "Wilson, what's your point?"

"Well, Peter, why can't you just stop wetting the bed? Just don't drink water before bedtime or get up to use the latrine at night," Wilson continued prodding.

"I bloody well tried all of that! It doesn't always work!" Peter said. "I thought you were on my side! I thought you wanted to help me!"

"You don't wet the bed on purpose. You don't want to do it. And you can't help doing it sometimes, even though you keep trying," Wilson said gently. "That's the truth, Newkirk. Don't you see?"

"See what?" Peter replied. Now he had tears in his eyes again. Bloody hell, this was getting tiresome. He hadn't cried this many days in a row in years.

"It's one little part of you. It's something you can accept about yourself if you allow yourself to," Wilson said. "Like me being grumpy most of the time."

"Or me being a goofball and a klutz," Carter added.

"Or me fainting at the sight of blood," LeBeau said.

"Or me making inappropriate wisecracks at exactly the wrong moment," Hogan said, "and OK, wetting my bed when I was almost in high school."

Everyone waited for Kinch to chime in. He was deep in thought. Finally, he said, "I'm thinking, guys! I'm just not coming up with my shortcomings!"

"Undying modesty?" Peter asked with a grin.

"That's it!" Kinch said, to laughter all around.

Once the joke died down, the men sat quietly. Finally, Peter broke the silence. "So if it's part of me, then what do I do the next time it happens?"

Carter was the first to get it. "You just say 'oh well.' If you wake up wet, you don't hide it anymore. You just clean up and go on with your day. And we'll all help you."

Peter looked appalled. "But the other lads- they'll make fun of me!"

Hogan spoke up. "Yes, they will, but it won't matter unless you let them under your skin. And remember, we've all got your back."

Peter pondered, then looked up at LeBeau. "Louis, act it out with me. Pretend I woke up wet and you saw me and said something. You can be..."

"Olsen," LeBeau said. "_Hey, Newkirk, you're dripping wet! What happened? You wet your bed_?"

"As a matter of fact, I did, Olsen. 'appens sometimes to the best of us. Now excuse me while I wash up," Peter said.

Everyone applauded. "See?" Wilson said. "You've got this."

"How about Garlotti. You, Kinch?"

"_Hey, Newkoik, what's wit the wet nightgown_?_ Ya have an accident or what'_?" Kinch said in a near-perfect imitation of Garlotti's New Jersey accent.

"It's a night_shirt_, and yes, sometimes I wet my bed," Peter replied. "Be a good lad and tell the Colonel what 'appened? 'e'll know what to do."

Another round of applause. "Great!" Hogan said. "Ask for help."

"Colonel? You be Addison. He's wouldn't be nice about it," Peter said.

Hogan exhaled. "OK. _Jeez, Newkirk, what's the matter with you? Are you some kind of big baby_?"

"I wet my bed, Addison. Accidents happen," Peter replied matter-of-factly.

"_Ooh, wet your bed like a little baby. Do you need a baby bottle now_?" Hogan persisted.

Peter glared but said nothing.

"_What's amatter? Are you going to cry now, you bedwetting baby? Maybe we better get you some diapers._" He was hovering over Newkirk now, looking menacing. Peter continued to glare back at him, then threw a punch into his gut.

"I don't punch like a baby, do I, mate?" Peter said. "Now you can shut up, or I'll finish you off right now."

Wilson stroked his chin and nodded as Kinch helped Hogan straighten up. "We might need to work on that response a little, but yeah, it's effective," Wilson said.


	9. Chapter 9: Intervention

Kinch was at the radio that afternoon, having finally made contact with the top brass in London who could address the matters involving Sergeant Michael Newkirk, RAF, and Corporal James Newkirk, Royal Fusiliers. It seemed to be turning into a larger meeting than he anticipated, and urgently wished the Colonel was there with him.

He heard a rustle in the tunnel and realized it was Carter emerging from his laboratory. "Andrew," he hissed as he covered his microphone. "Hurry up top and get the Colonel. Tell him it's urgent. It's about Newkirk's brothers. Tell him there's a lot of brass on the call." Carter nodded and took off up the ladder.

"Bear with us a moment, Papa Bear," a young woman was saying on the other end of the transmission. "We have all the principals assembled, but Agee and Duncan are still conferring. It shouldn't be long."

The Adjutant General? Scotland Yard? Why were they involved? Kinch was puzzling over that when Hogan walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He handed the Colonel a headset and gestured him to sit.

The operator finally got back on and announced the call. "Gentlemen, thank you for your patience. Papa Bear, are you there?"

"Present, with Chance Bear," Hogan said.

"Very well. We have here Bluebird and the Huntsman, Papa Bear." Hogan and Kinch recognized the code for officers from the RAF and the British Army. "Also, Agee and Duncan and a few observers," she added. "In the matter of Little Boy Blue." That was Newkirk's codename, and Hogan and Kinch couldn't help but smile, because, boy, did he hate it.

Bluebird spoke first. "The incidents involving Little Boy Blue have been most regrettable, Papa Bear. Rest assured, we have investigated fully, and when we learned of Duncan's involvement we cooperated in resolving the matter. The suspects are now in custody, and charges have been filed. And may we express our deepest regrets to the young lady's survivors."

"Survivors? Are we talking about the same thing?" Hogan said.

"This is Duncan, Papa Bear, and I'm afraid events have moved rather quickly since your team last contacted Ladybird. She is dead."

Ladybird was the codename for Newkirk's sister Mavis. "His sister? Oh my God," Kinch said.

"No, no, terribly sorry for any confusion," Duncan said. "Ladybird is alive and well and looking after Twinkle Twinkle. It's Lavender Blue, the child's mother. I'm afraid it was quite violent and both Ladybird and Twinkle Twinkle were eyewitnesses."

Duncan continued after a pause. "That's why both Bluebird and Huntsman are here. Both of their… charges… were involved. We can't say much more at this time, Papa Bear. A matter for the courts, you understand. But be assured that both of Little Boy Blue's brothers have been locked away and are facing serious charges."

"They won't trouble our man any longer," the Huntsman put in. "And Papa Bear, we ARE terribly sorry."

"Is their correspondence being monitored? We can't risk having any more slipping through. It is too disruptive to Little Boy Blue," Hogan said.

"Rest assured," Agee said. "There will be no further communication unless Little Boy Blue chooses it."

"And Little Boy Blue's father? 'This Old Man'?" Hogan asked. "Do you have any authority over him?"

"Ah, yes. Bally awful, that," Duncan began. "This Old Man was a party to the conspiracy and would have been charged," Duncan said. "He was assisting police with their inquiries when… well, it is most unfortunate that he was allowed to keep his scarf in his prison cell, Papa Bear. Most unfortunate."

Hogan looked at Kinch, who nodded in understanding. Yes, he was saying what Hogan thought Duncan was saying. Newkirk's father had taken his life.

"Ladybird and Twinkle Twinkle—are they all right? This must be a terrible blow," Hogan said.

A female voice came on the line. "This is Mother Hubbard. We have moved them to a safe location and provided victims' assistance. Twinkle Twinkle is young and should recover from the trauma," she said. "Ladybird is resilient. So strong, in fact, that she has been working with victims herself for some time, providing counsel in difficult times."

Kinch had thumbed through the code book to find Mother Hubbard. A child psychologist. London had been thorough indeed in assembling Team Newkirk.

Bluebird was back on the line. "If Little Boy Blue wishes, we will expedite the process of declaring the child his dependent. The increase in his pay will benefit the child," he said.

"I think he'd like that," Hogan said. "We'll speak with him tonight. Mother Hubbard, it's a lot of bad news to break to Little Boy Blue. Do you have any advice for us?"

"Yes, Papa Bear, I've been thinking about this. It is a great deal to absorb," Mother Hubbard advised. "Conflicting emotions are to be expected, including a child's profound grief at the loss of a parent, no matter how abusive he was. And you will have to help him understand his anger and teach him to recognize when he is directing it at others."

"Beyond that," Mother Hubbard said, "It is really six separate matters because it involves six people."

"First, Little Boy Blue may feel deep regret in knowing that his relationship with This Old Man can never be repaired. Children love their parents even when they are cruel," Mother Hubbard said. "Second, with respect to Lavender Blue, Little Boy Blue's sense of loss may be deep, and he may feel he has failed because he could not protect her. You must reassure him that it was beyond his control, and that she is in a better place now."

"Third and fourth are his brothers. Fear may continue to be Little Boy Blue's dominant emotion-fear and also rage at the abuse he suffered. You can be very reassuring on this point. They will not be able to hurt him again.

"And toward Ladybird and Twinkle Twinkle, the need to connect and move forward will be on his mind. He may feel he has burdened his sister, who is the fifth person involved,"Mother Hubbard added. "I see Ladybird daily, and I can assure you she is delighted to care for Twinkle Twinkle. She says he is the spitting image of Little Boy Blue in every respect. And finally there is the sixth person, the child. Little Boy Blue must build a relationship with Twinkle Twinkle, laying a foundation to be a father to him after the war."

"Little Boy Blue is critical to our operation," Hogan said quietly. "Will he be fit to continue?"

The voices on the other end murmured among themselves as they consulted with one another. Then, by assent, Mother Hubbard was chosen to speak up again.

"I would like to spend some time with Little Boy Blue, and will be making a house call," she said. "But I am encouraged. I understand him to be remarkably resilient. Give it a little time, and we shall see."

"Excellent news, Mother Hubbard. Please let us know when we can expect you," Hogan said.

"I certainly shall. It won't be long," Mother Hubbard said pleasantly.

Bluebird was back on the call. "Well, I think that concludes our conversation," he said. "Papa Bear, good luck talking to your man. I know you'll handle it well. And Mother Hubbard and I will be along to see you presently. I want to check in, too. Over."

"Roger that," Hogan said. "Papa Bear out."

**XXX**

**XXX**

OK, I hope all the code names weren't too confusing.

In London HQ

**Bluebird**—an RAF senior officer

**Huntsman** – a British Army senior officer

**Agee** – a British military officer representing the Adjutant General (legal) office

**Duncan**—an official from Scotland Yard, the criminal investigative division of the London Police

**Mother Hubbard**—a child psychologist/trauma specialist appointed to the case

In Stalag 13

**Papa Bear**—Colonel Hogan of course

**Chance Bear—**Kinch, nicknamed after legendary Chicago Cubs player Frank Chance, who anchored the "Tinker-Evers-Chance" doubleplay and was renowned as a team leader

**Little Boy Blue**—Peter Newkirk, so named because of his RAF uniform and his relative youth

Family Members

**Lavender Blue**—Laura McInerney Newkirk, Peter's sister-in-law, wife to his brother Jamie, but also Peter's lover, and Simon's mother

**This Old Man**—Newkirk's father

**Ladybird**—Newkirk's oldest sister, Mavis

**Twinkle Twinkle** –Laura and Peter Newkirk's son, Simon


	10. Chapter 10: Finding Out

Hogan drummed his fingers on the radio table as the call concluded. He checked his watch. It was 5 PM, and someone was going to have to give some very bad news to Newkirk.

Someone, of course, was him.

Hogan looked up at Kinch, whose dark brown eyes had grown distant and sad.

"This isn't going to be easy," Kinch said softly, shaking his head.

"No," Hogan said. He stood up, crossed his arms, and began to pace in the small radio room. "Damn it, Kinch. I'm not sure where to start."

"You'll start at the beginning, Sir," Kinch replied. "It's the only way."

Almost in unison, they both expelled their breath sharply. Damn. Damn.

"When will you speak with him, Sir?" Kinch asked.

"Soon," Hogan answered. "Let him eat supper first and we'll get everyone through rollcall. Then I'll bring him into my room. He needs to sleep in there tonight anyway, and it will give him some privacy in case he … um, well, needs it." He stopped and studied Kinch again. "How do you think he'll react? What do we need to be ready for?"

"It's always hard to say with Newkirk, Colonel," Kinch said. "I think Wilson should be on standby. Do you want me there, Sir?"

"I need to speak with him alone. But I want you nearby, and LeBeau and Carter, too," Hogan said. "He relies on all of you."

** XXX**

As LeBeau dished out the stew, Peter knew something was up. He could feel a change in the air, in the cautious way Carter and Kinch were watching him, the solicitous way Hogan sat beside him, the gentle way LeBeau urged him to eat up.

"Did you sssspeak with London about Mavis, Sir?" Peter asked Hogan as he fanned his hand over his hot dish. "You said yesterday we mmight be able to speak with her and find out 'ow Laura is doing, and the baby. Are they w-working on it?"

Hogan pressed a hand into the small of Peter's back. "Yes, they're working on it. As soon as they have something organized, you'll be the first to know," he said kindly. His hand shifted higher and he rubbed Peter's back.

Peter nodded, and then looked directly at Hogan with a pleading look. "You and Kinch were down there an awfully long time today," he said. "When Carter came up…"

"Oh, you were here when Carter came up?" Kinch asked. He looked sharply at Carter. "Well, then I'm sure Carter told you it was nothing to worry …"

"Yes! 'E said it was about my brothers and it was urgent!" Peter said. "What did you find out?"

That wasn't what Kinch wanted to hear. Didn't Carter grasp the need for discretion? He would have to speak with him later.

"We did get an update on your brothers, Newkirk," Hogan said. "You'll be pleased to know they've both been placed in custody pending an investigation."

"What are they investigating, Sir?" Peter looked confused. "And J-J-J-J-J," he began. "Oh, you know, the second one, 'e's in North Africa! Are you telling me they've detained 'im _there_? They got word to 'is unit and arrested 'im?"

"London takes threatening letters very seriously, Newkirk," Hogan said. "We'll talk more after rolllcall, all right? I'll tell you … I'll tell you everything I know," he said.

Peter reluctantly accepted that he wasn't getting any further updates right now. He sighed, rested his chin in his hand, and swirled his spoon in his soup. He tasted it, then sampled a few more bites, then laid the spoon down by his bowl.

"Pierre?" LeBeau said.

"Yes, Louis?" Peter replied without even looking up.

"Take your elbow off the table. And eat, _mon pote_," LeBeau said softly.

Peter's gaze met Louis' and lingered there. He could feel the caring in that look, and wanted to respond in kind. He straightened up, smiled weakly and tried again. As the team ate in silence, Peter managed a few more bites before pushing away the bowl, less than half-eaten.

"Sorry, Louis," Peter said. "It's delicious, it really is. I'm just not 'ungry." He stood up and pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, then retrieved his great coat and yanked it on. "I'll be outside. I need a smoke," he said to no one in particular.

Four worried pairs of eyes followed him to the door.

**XXX**

Rollcall was blessedly brief, and at 7:45 PM the men were filing back into the barracks. They would have more than an hour to relax, play cards, read, and write letters home before lights out.

As Hogan watched over the men settling down at the table, he had to remind himself to breathe. Give him 15 minutes to relax, he thought as he watched Peter smiling broadly while dealing out a poker hand. Hogan made up his mind to take it slow. He settled at the table and declared, "Deal me in."

Peter was plainly delighted by the Colonel's presence in the game. The Gov was the second-best bluffer in the camp, and playing against him made the game more interesting. But after just two rounds, it was clear to Peter that something was different. He could see the Colonel's heart was not in it. And as he looked around the room, he saw anxious looks etched into other faces. Carter couldn't hide it if he tried. LeBeau looked ready to cry. Kinch's usual reserve had given way to obvious strain.

Peter laid his hand down. "Is anyone going to tell mmmme what the bloody 'ell is going on?" he demanded.

Hogan nodded and pulled Peter up by the arm. "Yes, in my office. Come on."

**XXX**

Sitting quietly at the table or on their bunks, the men of Barracks 2 heard a voice from within the Colonel's office rising to crescendo.

"No. No. NO. NO. NO! NO! NO!" Peter was shouting. Then the words ceased and a keening howl took their place.

At a nod from Kinch, Carter was on his way through the tunnels to tell Wilson he was needed. LeBeau was edging toward the door to the Colonel's office, with Kinch on his heels. He turned the knob and let them in.

Peter was collapsed on his knees at the edge of the bunk, as Colonel Hogan crouched down in front of him. His face was buried in his hands as breathed sharply. "It can't be. It can't be," he was repeated. "Oh, God, Laura."

"Shh. Shh," Hogan said. "Come up here. Sit beside me. There's more I need to explain to you."

"I hope they 'ang them!"he said. "M-Mmmmy fucking brothers should both 'ang for what they did to that girl. My ol' man should 'ang too! 'E egged them on!"

Kinch gulped. He realized that Hogan was only halfway through his news. He helped Hogan lift Peter off the floor, and he settled him on the bunk, sitting next to the Colonel. Then he knelt in front of Peter, took his hand, and looked at Colonel Hogan.

The Colonel nodded at Kinch. "Tell him," Hogan said, his voice shaking as he kept an arm wrapped around Peter.

"Peter, your father is gone too," Kinch said. "He died in prison."

"No," Peter said. "No, no, Kinch. That can't be right. You have it wrong." He grabbed Kinch by the shoulders and shook them. "Why would you tell me that? It can't be right!"

Still kneeling, Kinch put his hands over Peter's and gently removed them from his shoulders. Gripping his wrists, he squeezed hard. "Peter, I am so sorry. Both Laura and your father are gone."

Peter pulled at his dog tags and clutched the gold cross that was nestled among them. "She gave me this," he said, starting to rock. "She gave me this when I left for France, and she gave me a son, and I loved 'er for so long," he choked out.

"But my old man – 'e never gave me nothin'! Nothin' but my worthless life and a load of bruises! Why did I love 'im anyway? Why did I ever care?" he sobbed, holding his chest and rocking in place as a torrent of tears washed his face. "My 'eart 'urts so much. I want to die."

Rocking forward, Peter stumbled to the floor and into Kinch's arms. "Nobody else is dying, Peter," Kinch said softly. "Now come here."

He cradled Peter in his arms and let him cry, then helped Hogan lift him up onto the bunk. As they laid Peter down, he curled onto his side and made himself small, sobbing helplessly. Hogan sat at the head of the bunk and stroked his head without a word, with no idea what else he could possibly do. Kinch made himself a seat at Peter's side and rubbed his back until his sobs became gasps and his gasps became hiccups.

By now, Carter had returned with Wilson, who stood by quietly taking in the scene. He pulled Louis aside and sent him out of the room to gather a few things. Then he rested a hand on Kinch's shoulder and took his place at Peter's side.

"Hey," Wilson said softly. He pulled up Peter's shirt as he stuck his stethoscope in his ear, warming the end in his hand. "This might be a little cold," he said. "I'm just going to listen to your heart."

"His heart rate is pretty fast," Wilson murmured to Hogan. "And he's wheezing a little." He coaxed Peter into a sitting position to check his breathing. "Nothing too far from normal, but we'll keep an eye on it. Just making sure his body can handle a sedative."

"Peter," Wilson said softly, removing his pullover before laying him back down, "I'm going to give you something to help you sleep. All right?"

Peter nodded slowly. His breath was still hitching, his face red, his eyes pink and puffy.

"All right, then," Wilson said. "We're going to get you undressed first. Let's get these boots and socks off…. That's it… Thanks, Carter… uh-uh. And now your trousers. That's right. Slide them off. OK. LeBeau has your nightshirt, but before you put that on, let's take care of this medicine." Stripped down to his just shorts and an undershirt, Newkirk looked small and vulnerable as he curled up once more on the bed.

"On your back," Wilson said softly, and Peter obediently rolled over. Wilson tied a tourniquet around Peter's forearm and patted the vein, then turned the task over to Kinch so he could draw up the syringe. Flicking it a few times, he filled it expertly, then took over from Kinch. Wilson check the vein, swabbed it with alcohol, then slid in the needle. In moments, Peter's eyes were heavy and he was drowsing. He would be asleep in minutes

Wilson stood back at LeBeau and Kinch pulled Peter's nightshirt into place, then watched as Hogan leaned in to tuck the blankets around the sleepy Corporal. "He should sleep for four to six hours," Wilson said. "Maybe eight if we're lucky. Hard night," he said.

"Hard night," Hogan echoed. "Good thing he's tough."

XXX

The dream that had tormented Peter in his sleep for so long found him again that night as the sedative started to lose its edge.

_They were chasing him and he was running as fast as his little legs could carry him. Was he five? Six? He was small and his brothers were so big and so angry. Down the street he ran, and into the house. Mavis! They're after me again! Where was Mavis? Out at the shops? Emily, Ellie and Lilly must be with her. Frantically, his eyes searched for a safe place. Down to the coal cellar? No, up. Up to the bedroom where Mummy slept before the doctor shook his head sadly and sent her away._

_Into the wardrobe, behind her skirts and dresses, where the fragrance of life still lingered. Not the antiseptic smell of her sickroom. No, this was a sweet smell, just like Mummy. He pushed his way in and huddled in a corner, clutching her dress, thumb in mouth. Just be quiet. Don't move a muscle. They won't touch you if they can't find you._

_But oh, he needed to go pee-pee so badly. He wasn't a baby anymore. He went to school every day and hardly ever wet himself at night. He could wait, couldn't he? And he tried, he really did. But then he heard them shouting for him downstairs, and heard their footsteps storming up the steps toward him and he was so scared. He just let go without even thinking. _

_They must have seen the puddle dripping there because they flung open the wardrobe doors. Michael with his freckles and red hair and gap teeth. Jamie just the same, only smaller and with nicer teeth. Michael with his fists. Jamie with his probing fingers and spoon handles. They dragged him out of the closet, kicked him, wrestled him onto the bed, and went at him._

_His hand went to his mouth. He was stinging where Michael slapped him. Blood everywhere. His little front teeth were hanging loose. His nose was bleeding. His wet shorts were off, balled up and tossed in a corner. His little sister's dress was pulled over his head._

_It was a blur, how Michael smashed him and Jamie groped him. How they both pissed on him, and then Michael did that other thing where the white stuff oozed out on him. Peter cried out for Mavis. And when she finally found him, he just laid there, desperate for her. The words wouldn't come. He just wanted to stay in her arms. And he did, for days, until he finally found his feet and his voice again and remembered he was a big boy, not a baby. He tried to tell Mavis everything he could remember, but now the words and the names got stuck. Mmmmmm. J-j-j-j-j. _

Colonel Hogan was over him, shaking him awake. "Peter, it's OK. It's a dream. A bad dream. But you're OK. Wake up, talk to me. Mavis isn't here, but you can talk to her soon, OK? Oh, God, you're wet."

Peter could feel the warmth again, a spreading sensation that made him just want to lie in bed, belly down. "When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold." What was that? Oh, he read that in a book, and it was right. Because now it was cold, and he wanted to cry again. He thought he might be crying but he couldn't be sure. His head was in a daze and he wasn't sure what was real.

Hogan had quit shaking him, and was rubbing a circle in his back. "You had a nightmare and you had an accident. It's OK. I've got you, Peter. But we need to get you changed."

"It's not a nightmare," Peter said, face down and through tears. "It's a mmmmemory. It's d-different, because it really 'appened."

**XXX**

_Peter is remembering the first page of "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" by James Joyce._


	11. Chapter 11: Remembering

Chapter 11: Remembering

Peter remembered the small but firm hands that gently took off his wet clothes, the warm cloth that wiped him clean, the strong arms that lifted him out of the bunk, wrapped him in a dry blanket and held him. He breathed in the musky smell of a tall, muscular man who now sat crouched on a stool as others bustled around them. He nestled in his lap, head pressed into the familiar neck, feeling his stubble, hearing the steady thump of his heartbeat. Dark brown eyes, he thought. Warm brown skin. He felt protected.

LeBeau and Carter quickly stripped the bed and wiped down the rubber mattress cover while Hogan bunched up the sheets and nightclothes. Cleanup could wait till morning. Now, in the middle of the night, what they need most was calm. It was warm in Hogan's small office, warmer than in the big barracks room, and the faint smell of urine hung lightly in the air. Hogan inched open his shutter to let fresh air in. Kinch laid Newkirk on the bunk, patted him gently, and took off through the tunnels, on his way to get Wilson.

Peter only had a few items of clothing. None of the POWs had much, except for Hogan, whose well-to-do family kept his locker piled with underwear, pajamas, bathrobes and bed linens. So when Carter came back from the barracks room empty handed on his quest for dry underclothes, Hogan dug into his locker and produced GI-issued shorts and a t-shirt for Peter. The Corporal was a little smaller than Hogan, but these would do.

Peter laid passively as they dressed him and tried to get a few words out of him. When they covered him in Hogan's warm blanket, he rolled onto his right side, clutched the corner tassels in his left hand, covered his face with it, and put the tip of his left thumb between his lips. That was better. No one could see him, because he was hiding.

Only they _could_ see him, and Hogan cringed at the sight. He reached over and gently pulled the thumb from the Corporal's mouth. "No, Newkirk," he said softly. "You can't do that. You're a soldier."

Wilson had arrived back on the scene to watch Peter's hand struggling against Hogan's insistent pull. "Leave him, Colonel," he finally said, moving closer to the bed. "It won't do him any harm." Wilson crouched by the bunk as Peter stuck his thumb, just the tip, back into his mouth. The medic searched Peter's face for a sign of recognition, but found none. "I don't think he knows where he is," he told Colonel Hogan. "He's just trying to soothe himself. It's not forever, Sir. It's just for now."

Hogan reluctantly backed away and crossed his arms, watching uneasily as Wilson gently placed a hand on Newkirk's head. "Hey, son. Can you tell me your name?"

Peter's eyes were wide open, but he gave no response.

"Do you know where you are, son?" Wilson continued.

Peter's eyes flicked nervously toward Wilson, then darted away.

Wilson stroked his head. "It's all right, Peter. Just relax. We'll take care of you." He closed his eyes and stuck his thumb a little deeper.

Wilson stood to confer with Hogan. LeBeau took a seat on the bunk beside his best friend, next to his head.

"_Fais dodo_, _Pierrot_," he said, brushing his hair from his eyes. "Go back to sleep."

Peter up looked sleepily into LeBeau's warm eyes for a long moment, then withdrew the thumb from his mouth and put a finger to his lips.

"Shhh. I'm Peter," he said softly. "We're inside my Mummy's wardrobe. Now be quiet or they'll hear us." He closed his eyes again.

"What did he say?" Wilson asked, returning to Peter's bedside with a syringe in his hand. He reached under the blanket to wrap a tourniquet around the Corporal's arm so he could find a vein.

"We're hiding in the _garde-robe_," Louis said, gazing at Peter with a soft smile. "He's told me of this dream before. _Pierrot_, Jamie and Michael can't hurt you any longer. You have new brothers now, _compris-tu_? And we will all protect you." He stroked Peter's cheek.

As the smell of alcohol hit Peter's nostrils and the pinch of a needle pricked inside his right elbow, he winced and cried out. "Ow! Louis? Is that you, mate? Why is my face all wet?" He swiped his left arm over this eyes. "Don't let the Gov see me like this. Cor, I'm such a crybaby sometimes."

Louis laughed. "He is right here, you idiot. He has seen and it is OK. Welcome back, _mon pote_."

"Oi. 'Ave I been away?" Peter asked. "Wilson, what the bloody hell did you stick me with?" he asked, pulling his arm back angrily as Wilson tried to apply a bandage.

"He's back," Wilson said. "Shut up, Newkirk. You're going back to sleep." He was right. A split second later, Peter's head hit the mattress with a plop.

**XXX**

When reveille sounded nearly four hours later, Peter awoke and stretched. Why was he in these strange clothes in Hogan's spare bunk? He saw the Colonel standing at his sink, shaving. He was always up early, just like LeBeau, who routinely prepared warm water for both of them so they could have a good close shave. Peter preferred sleep and scruff.

Peter sat up and instantly felt woozy. "Oh, me loaf," he moaned. "I feel like I've been pub-crawling."

Hogan came over to the bunk, still lathered up, and pushed him back down. "Lie still," he said kindly. "You haven't been drinking, but you had a couple of sedatives and they'll give you a hangover, without any of the fun." He crouched down. "Do you remember anything?"

Peter's head was swimming, but he remembered. "Yes, Sir," he said. "You told me about Laura and about me D-Dad. And about _them_ two," he spat out, not even attempting to say his brothers' names. "But I still don't understand 'ow it all 'appened. Isn't J-J-J-J," he tried.

"Jamie," Hogan said.

"Yes," Peter said gratefully. Most of the time he wanted to finish his own sentences, but sometimes it helped if someone else could fill in a word. "Isn't he still in North Africa?"

"Italy, actually. But yes," Hogan said. "He's in the brig at Army Central Command in Italy."

"All right. But then 'ow c-c-c-ould 'e… what c-c-could 'e do to Laura from there?" Peter asked.

Hogan nodded. "Michael committed the act, Peter. At Jamie's direction. With help from your…"

"My Dad," Peter said, tearing up. "And then 'e killed 'im too? I always knew Mmmmmichael was vicious but I never thought…"

"Peter, Michael did not kill your father," Hogan said softly.

Peter was dumbfounded. "But then who did?"

Hogan raised a hand and went to towel off his face. He could finish his shave later. He sat down on the bunk and pulled Peter up to sit beside him, hoping that with a little support he wouldn't be so woozy. He wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close.

"Peter, this is tough. Your father took his own life while he was in detention in London. He was arrested as an accessory in Laura's death, and he ended his life in his prison cell," Hogan said softly.

Peter leaned into Hogan, biting his lip and tightening every muscle in his face. Then he exhaled hard. He was not going to cry. Not again, not now, not for him.

"Coward," he said. "He was a bloody coward. The things 'e did to my brothers and me. It was different when I was little. I would sit on 'is lap and listen to stories. But after me mum died… oh, bloody hell, no I won't." The tears were rolling again, but he was wiping them away.

He pulled away from the Colonel and composed himself. "I'm all right Sir. It is a bloody shock. Both of them gone, Mmichael and J-Jamie locked up." He stopped himself. "Did you 'ear that, Sir? I said their names. Michael and J-Jamie." In case it was a fluke, he tried again. "Michael and J-Jamie."

"You sure did. Good boy," Hogan said, clasping his arm. He pulled his chin toward him. "They can't hurt you any more. You understand? They _cannot_ hurt you."

Peter nodded, eyes wide. "Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir. Thank you from the bottom of my 'eart." He leaned into him again and allowed himself to melt into the Colonel's warm embrace. He wondered what it would have been like to have a Dad who took care of him like the Colonel did and fought back a sob. "Gov," he said softly, not entirely sure why he was speaking. Hogan just hugged him closer and planted his chin on top of the Corporal's head.

After a long moment, they stood. "OK?" Hogan asked, holding the younger man's shoulders. Peter nodded in reply as a few tears escaped down his cheeks. Hogan face softened to an expression Peter had never seen before. The Colonel pulled out a handkerchief, dried the runaway tears, and then— to Peter's utter surprise—pulled him close by both cheeks and placed a fatherly kiss on top of his forehead.

"Everything will be all right," Hogan said softly. "You're _my_ cub. _I'm_ going to take care of you now and for as long as you need me. Understood?

Peter looked earnestly in Hogan's eyes and nodded. Yes, he understood. He wasn't fatherless any longer.

Hogan smiled, patted Peter on the back and returned to his shave. Peter wiped his eyes and started to regain his bearings. He realized he was dressed only in underclothes that weren't even his.

He charged into the main barracks room, bellowing. "Where in bloody 'ell did LeBeau 'ide my uniform this time? LeBeau!"

Hogan could only smile with relief as Peter tore past him.


	12. Chapter 12: Here Comes Mother Hubbard

Hogan found Peter seated at the barracks table, chatting cheerfully with LeBeau as the barracks hummed with activity. Men were getting up, getting dressed, and getting shaved with rollcall coming in 15 minutes. He was relieved to see Peter in a good mood, not looking scared or worried. Hogan wondered how much he could remember about his night time breakdown. Probably not much, he decided, and it would be best to leave it that way until the expert arrived.

In fact, the expert was on her way. Mother Hubbard, also known as RAF Squadron Leader Veronica Maywood, was being transported to Stalag 13 by resistance leaders, having been flown to Bern, Switzerland by Red Cross aircraft the day before.

Dr. Maywood was a plump, middle-aged blonde with dark eyes and graying temples. Bumping along in the back of a bread van, she peered over her glasses to review the carefully coded file of the young man she had come to about to examine. Lucerne was London. Newkirk was Kirchherr. Peter was still Peter, no need to change that. All the details that needed to be cloaked in secrecy were, but the rest stood out starkly.

He'd arrived at basic training in September 1939 at age 18 with a deck of cards, the shirt on his back and a chip on his shoulder. His education was nearly nil, yet he was anything but stupid. The battery of tests administered to all incoming recruits revealed an exceptional mind with a strong capacity for memorization, the ability to think abstractly, a talent for finding patterns and logic. But he was defiant and resistant to instruction until he came under the command of Flight Lieutenant Charles Cholomondeley. Chumley, as all the men called him, had seen a spark in Newkirk, took him under his wing, and somehow tamed him.

After a rough start, Newkirk was faring well in basic training until one day in December 1939 when his brothers came to visit for his 19th birthday. All three Newkirk brothers were all in uniform and from a distance no one would have mistaken them for anything but a typical family. The older brothers seemed to be having a good bit of fun at the expense of Peter, the youngest brother, but who hadn't seen that before? The episode would have gone unremarked if it hadn't been for Chumley's concern about what came next.

Wet sheets. Night after night. Aircraftman Newkirk was embarrassed and endured intense teasing from his barracks mates until he couldn't take it any longer and started fighting back. He ended up in the brig, where the bedwetting continued for over a week.

No one wanted to talk about it, but then Chumley paid him a visit. He remembered his own days at Harrow, where he was hazed relentlessly for pissing his bed for the first two years. It went on intermittently until he graduated and went to Cambridge, and then finally it stopped. Or at least he thought it had until one morning in September 1939 as a newly commissioned Flight Lieutenant he woke up soaked. He knew it meant he was just bloody scared, he talked to a medical officer, and it got better.

Chumley didn't waste time talking to Newkirk about his fighting or his stammer, which had got noticeably worse since he landed in the brig. He went straight to the bedwetting. His own. And as he shared the details of how, even a few months earlier, he had also been having this problem, a wall crumbled down.

Newkirk actually cried, and the tears seemed to wash away his defenses. He confided in Chumley how it was a bad dream about his brothers that always set him off, a dream he'd had since he was a little boy. A dream that was worse because it had really happened.

He wouldn't say much more, but the next day he was dry and calmer and within three days Chumley had him out of the brig and back at work. He carefully documented the incident and concluded: "Aircraftmen Newkirk is a good man who will work hard for any officer who treats him fairly. Compassion is the key to overcoming his occasional setbacks, but the officer who helps him through adversity will have his loyalty for life."

And Chumley did. But, as Dr. Maywood unfortunately learned when she reached out to interview him, it was a short life. He perished only a few months later during the Dunkirk evacuation. Corporal Peter Newkirk, one of his most trusted ground crew members, watched from French soil as a Luftwaffe fighter took out Chumley's aircraft on its way back to base in England. And a day later, on June 1, 1940, Newkirk was a captive of the Germans.

Dr. Maywood wiped a tear from her eye as she read through her own notes in the file. The sacrifices made by the young men in the RAF and other forces were profound. So many fine young lives had been lost so early. Chumley sounded like a splendid officer. Fortunately, she thought, Newkirk had landed in the command and care of another fine officer—Colonel Hogan.

She'd seen the American in action before he was shot down, when he was Major Hogan, attached to the RAF to train young pilots for combat. She had been to the Central Flying School at RAF Upavon to record her observations on the psychological readiness of pilots to take on their missions. And she'd seen how Hogan had led through with serious purpose, good humor, and astonishing creativity.

And she wondered if Hogan and Chumley's paths had ever crossed. She'd have to ask him.

**XXX**

Nine hours in the back of a bread van had not been easy on a slightly overweight lady of 44. It felt good to stretch her limbs, but her joints ached as a small Frenchman led her through the dark woods outside of Stalag 13.

"We are very happy you're here, _Madame Docteur_," said the Frenchman, who had introduced himself as LeBeau. She knew about this one, Dr. Maywood smiled to herself. Hogan's periodic updates on the psychological status of his team had described him as feisty and strong. A little excitable, perhaps, but rock solid. That seemed entirely accurate as he nimbly led her over rocks and rubble to a tree trunk.

She wasn't used to this pace or terrain, and LeBeau was gentleman enough to notice. They stopped for a breather.

"Pierre is _mon pote_, and he is a very good man and a good soldier," LeBeau was saying softly, his arms tucked inside his coat sleeve. "But he has had a very difficult time of it lately. He'll be pleased if you can give him news of his sisters and his nephew … I mean son. It's so hard to get used to saying 'son.' He's just a boy himself." He shook his head.

"He is young," Dr. Maywood said simply. She wasn't going to venture beyond facts until she saw her patient. "And he is lucky to have good friends," she added. There was no denying that. "And yes, I can share some news," she added.

LeBeau beamed back at her. "That will please him." He thought for a moment. "We all look after each other very well. Sometimes Pierre requires more looking after than the rest of us put together, but he always finds his inner strength," he added firmly. "Maybe I'm the one you have to worry about," he added with a smile. "_Il__ me rend fou avec ses blagues et ses farces_," he added, lapsing unconsciouslyinto his native tongue.

"_Donc, c'est un garçon très typique_," Dr. Maywood replied with a smile.

"_Exactement_," LeBeau said, smiling. "Are you ready to continue, _Madame Docteur_? We don't have too much farther to go."

**XXX**

Carter and Kinch helped Dr. Maywood steady herself as she descended the tunnel ladder. Her legs were shaking and muddy and she knew her hair must look a fright. But she smiled warmly as she looked around, placing each member of Hogan's team from her files.

Carter looked as earnest, kind and unassuming as Hogan had described him. Kinchloe had a warmth about him, and projected strength. Hogan, of course, she recognized. She could practically see the wheels churning in his head.

"Welcome to our happy little dump, Dr. Maywood," Hogan said cheerfully as Carter settled the doctor down in a chair. "We have a room set up for you down here. I'm sorry we couldn't get you a room with a view, but the upper level is booked."

"I'm sure I'll be fine here, Colonel Hogan," she replied. "It's good to see you again."

"Good to see you, too, Dr. Maywood. I thought when I heard you on the wireless that you might be Mother Hubbard."

"Your instincts are razor sharp as always, Colonel," Dr. Maywood said with a lovely smile. "Where is Corporal Newkirk? And is he expecting me?"

Hogan breathed out. "He's up top, preparing tea for an English lady visitor. And no, I didn't brief him. I'm sorry Veron… I mean, Dr. Maywood. I didn't want to spook him."

"It's all right," Dr. Maywood responded. "I'll make sure he understands everything. I'll need several hours alone with him, but perhaps we could begin by speaking together with him, Colonel."

Above them, a bunkbed clattered open and a pair of blue trouser legs appeared. "Tea for the lady, c-coming right up," Newkirk was saying as he descended the ladder. "I hope you like it sweet, Ma'am. I took the liberty of adding two lumps." His switch was set to full-charm mode as he appeared before the middle aged lady and gave her a genuine, broad smile. "It's a pleasure to mmmeet you, Mmma'am. Corporal Peter Newkirk at your service."

**XXX**

**Translations. **_"He drives me crazy with his jokes and his pranks." "He sounds like a typical boy, then." "Exactly."_


	13. Chapter 13: The Interview

**Note: This chapter contains some disturbing imagery about a father preying on his sons. I usually divide sections with 3 X's but there are 7 X's before this section. It is not graphically described or detailed in any way, but it may upset some people so please proceed with care.**

Dr. Maywood took in the sight of the young man standing before her. Medium height, rather thin, medium brown hair, and an intelligent pair of almond-shaped eyes. Were they blue? Green? Grey? It was terribly hard to tell in the tunnel, but they were remarkably light in contrast to his tanned skin and dark brows and lashes. She detected no wariness. But then again, she deduced from his background that he liked and trusted women more than men. And she was old enough to be his mother, which would probably help.

She took a sip from the hot mug he offered her. "Ah, just perfect," she said with a smile, looking him in the eyes as she spoke. "Thank you so much, Corporal. There's nothing better than a nice cuppa."

"A cup of tea mmmmakes everything better, my sister always says," Newkirk replied. "'Ave you come straight from London, Mmmma'am? I've been wondering 'ow…" His thoughts faded out, and he bit his lip, looking down and unsure how to go on.

"I have indeed," Dr. Maywood said softly. "What did you want to know?"

"Is it bad? You can tell mmmme if it's bad. I j-j-just want the truth," Newkirk said softly. He looked up and locked eyes with her and instantly decided she was very kind. He could read a person's eyes, and hers had the sparkle he recognized as human connection.

"Well, the city remains on a war footing, of course," Dr. Maywood said. "The air raids aren't as bad as 1940, but still blasted awful. Civilians are still being injured almost daily. Women, children, old people."

Newkirk nodded. It was hard to hear, but she wasn't dancing around it, and he was grateful for that. That, and the way she was looking him in the eyes as he spoke. Hardly anyone ever did that.

"And the East End, Ma'am? I'm fr-from Stepney," he said.

"The East End continues to take the brunt of it," Dr. Maywood said. "The devastation is extensive, but life somehow goes on. People live their lives and go about their work. East Enders are plucky."

Newkirk smiled at that description. Yes, indeed they were plucky. No self-respecting East Ender would give the Jerries the satisfaction of showing fear, even if they were shaking inside.

"Well, Mma'am we've set a room up for you down 'ere if you want to rest. And I'm sure we can find some w-w-warm water if you'd like that. The j-j-j-journey here isn't easy for a lady," Newkirk said kindly. "And if you need anything at all, let mme know." He reached out to touch her coat sleeve. "You've got a tear here, Mma'am, and I can mmend that."

"That is very kind of you, Corporal," Dr. Maywood said. She took note of the stammering pattern. Hardly any when he presented himself to her; more once they began conversing; less now that he must know he had her full attention. Two sounds seemed to trouble him most: M and J.

"Well," she said, looking around. "You must all wonder why I am here. I'm with our joint forces' medical services," she said. "London takes a keen interest in the well-being of our men in special operations, where you consistently face the greatest challenges. I'm here to chat with all of you and see how you are getting on, both physically and emotionally."

Newkirk's ease rapidly vanished. "Ch-chat with us about what?" He was backing away to the ladder when Colonel Hogan caught him around the shoulder.

"Nothing to worry about, Newkirk. Dr. Maywood's just going to speaking individually with each of us about how we're doing," Hogan said.

"I d-d-d-d-don't want to," Newkirk said. "I d-d-don't want to t-talk." Hogan shushed him, but Newkirk was plainly in a panic now.

"All right, Corporal. Then we'll just sit together," Dr. Maywood said agreeably. "Let's get you a cup of tea. Is it safe for me to go up above, Colonel?"

Hogan smiled, gripping Newkirk's shoulder tighter. "I think it could be arranged. Gentlemen first, in this case," he said, as LeBeau waved the lady ahead of him.

Kinch quirked an eyebrow at him, but Carter was the first to get it. "She's wearing a skirt," he explained. "Have a little courtesy."

Newkirk broke loose from Hogan's grip and was the first up the ladder. LeBeau took off after him.

XXX

It was late night, and Newkirk couldn't very well disappear into the compound; instead, LeBeau noticed, he vanished in Colonel Hogan's office. LeBeau pushed at the door, only to discover Newkirk was leaning into it from the other side.

"Let me in, you idiot. Why are you hiding from such a lovely lady?" LeBeau scolded him.

Newkirk held out as long as he could against LeBeau, but soon Kinch and Carter were helping the Frenchman. They gave a hard push and found Newkirk sprawled on the floor where he had landed.

Kinch held out a hand, and Newkirk reluctantly took it, allowing the American to pull him to his feet. He stood there with his head hanging low as Kinch dusted him off.

"Come on, now," Kinch was saying softly. "There's nothing to worry about."

Kinch wasn't expecting Newkirk to throw himself into his arms, so it took him a moment to reciprocate, slowly wrapping his arms around the younger man. Newkirk buried his face in Kinch's field jacket and started to shake.

"We're all going to talk to her, Pete," he said softly. "She just needs to make sure we're all OK and able to do our duty."

"What if I'm not?" Newkirk answered in muffled tones. He looked up at Kinch. "I'm not stupid, you know. This is about me, innit?"

Now LeBeau was at his side, pulling him to sit down on the bunk. "Pierre," he said softly, "she's here to help all of us, including you and Mavis and Simon too." LeBeau took Newkirk's hand, as only he could do.

Newkirk nodded at the mention of his family. Of course. He couldn't just think of himself. He had to think of his team, and of his sister and his nephew. No, his son.

"She seems real nice," Carter said, standing at the door. He could see Hogan and Dr. Maywood at the stove as the doctor prepared two cups of tea. "Just talk to her, Peter. I think it'll do you good to get your thoughts out. My mom always said, 'Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say,'" he added.

Newkirk looked up with curiosity at Carter. Hmm. That did make sense. He felt a throb in his chest as it registered just how much he missed his own mother and his big sister in this moment. He wished Mavis or Mummy was here to give him wisdom like that and to quieten him, because he was feeling very haunted these days.

"All right," Newkirk said. "I'll talk to 'er."

**XXX**

Colonel Hogan and Dr. Maywood entered the Colonel's office and the other men quietly filed out. The Colonel handed a cup to tea to Newkirk as the doctor cradled one in her hand and took a seat at Hogan's desk.

"You made this, Sir?" Newkirk said skeptically.

"Not a chance," Hogan said with a laugh. "I wouldn't know how to make a cup of tea. Dr. Maywood made it for you."

Peter looked across the room at the doctor and offered a wan smile. Then he sipped the tea and exhaled happily. "Oh, it's j-j-just grand," he said. "Thank you, Mmmma'am."

Hogan was levering Newkirk up from the bunk and guiding him to his desk. "Come on, sit here," he said. "She won't bite." Newkirk climbed up to a stool and sat, awaiting further instruction, while Hogan left and returned with another chair for himself.

Dr. Maywood addressed Newkirk. "Peter. May I call you Peter?" First names would be important to establishing rapport.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied softly, looking down.

She smiled warmly. "I like you a great deal, Peter. I can see your friends feel the same. I don't want you to worry about talking to me. You've been through a lot recently, and we just want to get you settled back down so you can continue your work here."

"You're not trying to take me away?" Newkirk said skeptically. He was fighting off a yawn, and was obviously tired and worried.

Dr. Maywood was hoping he'd ask, because she wanted to nip this fear in the bud. "We want you here, Peter. Colonel Hogan wants you here, don't you Colonel?"

"Absolutely," Hogan said without hesitation. "Newkirk… Peter, we need you as part of this team."

Peter's breath was ragged with worry as he exhaled. "All right, Sir, thank you, Sir. And Ma'am. I j-j-just don't wanna leave me mates is all." He looked down. "Best mates I ever 'ad."

"They're important to you," Dr. Maywood said.

"Of course they are. I'd do anything for 'em. Any of 'em," Peter replied.

"And we'd all do the same for you, Peter. We trust each other," Hogan said.

Peter nodded gratefully and looked at Hogan in admiration. Sometimes he couldn't believe his luck in landing in this particular officer's command. Best chap he'd known since Chumley. Even though Hogan wasn't old enough to be his father, he often thought of him that way. He wished he'd had a dad he could look up to and trust.

"Peter, I want to tell you something very important," Dr. Maywood said. "I've seen Mavis and Simon just this week. I brought you something from them."

She had a folder in her hands and reached into it. First, she produced a photograph of Mavis and Simon together.

Peter picked it up as if it was made of glass, holding it delicately by the edges and staring at the image. As the tears began to flow, Colonel Hogan rose, stood behind him, and wrapped his arms around his chest from behind. He pressed his cheek to Peter's.

"It's OK to cry," he said softly. "Just let it out." Peter let out a small choking sob and pushed his face into the Colonel's neck, crying harder. Hogan moved around in front of him and held him tightly to his chest.

Dr. Maywood observed the interaction silently. There was nothing typical about Colonel Hogan's leadership style, and nothing demonstrated this more clearly than his readiness to breach the usual wall between officer and enlisted man. Hogan held Peter as if he was his brother, or child, or—the thought flicked through her mind suddenly—lover. Dr. Maywood wasn't a product of the military, and wasn't troubled by Hogan's willingness to comfort an enlisted man, given their very unusual line of work and the closeness it required. But she did need to think about that last bit. Keep an eye on it, she thought, because that's a line they mustn't cross.

Peter lifted his head off the Colonel's chest and nodded, signaling that he was OK. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and laid the photo down on the desk. "Is this for me to keep?" he asked.

"Of course," Dr. Maywood said. "And there is one other thing." She pulled two sheets of paper out of the folder. On each was a tracing of a child's hand. "Lay your hand over it," she said. "I'll trace it." She traced his hand on top of his son's. "One goes with me. One stays with you," she said softly.

Peter sniffled and reached for her pencil. In the center of the child's hand on each paper, he drew a heart. Colonel Hogan noticed what he was doing and remembered he had a red pencil. He found it and handed it to Peter, who colored in the hearts in red. Underneath one picture, he wrote: "To Simon, with love from your Daddy." and pushed the paper back over the desk to Dr. Maywood. He let out another ragged breath and softly said, "Thank you, Ma'am."

**XXXXXXX**

After that the conversation flowed easily. Peter spoke of his grief and helplessness at losing Laura, his confused feelings for his father, his worries and gratitude for Mavis, his fear and joy at being a father to Simon, his rage toward his brothers, his pain over his mother's death.

And he spoke of his dream, his memory. Hogan listened, shocked, as Peter unfolded the recollection of being hunted and attacked by his brothers, and his shame and terror at losing control of himself. He remembered his own bedwetting incidents, which were awful enough without the added layer of being physically and sexually assaulted. He had to ask the question.

"Peter, you were just 5 or 6 when this was going on. How old were Michael and Jamie?"

"About 14 and 12, I think," Peter replied, yawning. The night was growing long and he had slept poorly for days.

Hogan was dumbfounded. He tried to form another question but couldn't. Dr. Maywood saw him struggling, and gently asked him, "What is it you wonder, Colonel Hogan?"

"I wonder… I wonder where such vicious behavior came from in two young boys. I wonder how they could have … how they could have even known how to assault a little boy. Peter, you were just a baby."

"My Dad," he said simply.

"What?" Hogan replied.

"My Dad," Peter repeated. "It's what he did to them after my Mummy got ill when I was still a wee lad. He didn't want to shag Mavis because 'e knew that was wrong. But some'ow it was OK for 'im to shag Michael and Jamie."

Even Dr. Maywood was astonished by this. "Peter, are you telling me your father had sexual relations with his own sons when they were little boys?"

Peter nodded. "If you can call it 'aving sex," he replied. "It wasn't intimate or beautiful like it should be. 'E was just ramming it up their arses to get some relief."

"How old were they when this began, Peter?" Dr. Maywood asked.

"I was about 3 when Mummy was first ill, so they might have been 9 and 11."

Dr. Maywood and Hogan were stunned into silence, not least of all because of the straightforward, accepting tone in Peter's voice. This was normal to him. The doctor in her line of work of course had heard of such things. Hogan had never even imagined such a thing.

"And when he did this to you, how did you respond?" Dr. Maywood inquired.

"Oh, 'e never did it to me," Peter replied, raising his hands. "Only me brothers. They protected me from 'im, you see."

"Peter, they did NOT protect you," Hogan shouted. "They hurt you!" Good God, if he ever met those brothers of Newkirk's, he wasn't sure he could be held responsible for his actions.

"Yes, Sir, they did protect me. They didn't let my Dad do to me what 'e was doing to them. I know they both shagged me and hurt me and Michael shagged my young sisters too. Not Jamie. 'E only liked boys." He looked up. "But then they told the old man I was practically a girl. That's why they called me Nancy. They knew 'e wouldn't hurt the girls, at least not that way. So they protected me." He looked bleary eyed and very tired. And no wonder. It was past 1 AM.

Hogan was too floored to answer, but Dr. Maywood eventually spoke.

"Peter, you may be right. In some twisted way, your brothers might have believed they were protecting you," Dr. Maywood said. "But Colonel Hogan is also right. The truth is they never protected you. Your father and brothers were supposed to protect you, but they didn't do it. Instead, they did a great deal of harm to you when you were just a little boy."

"Still a little boy," Peter murmured, his head hanging low, fighting exhaustion.

"What did you say, Peter?" Dr. Maywood said.

"Sometimes I feel I'm being an awful baby," Peter said, turning red. "It's pathetic. It's bloody embarrassing to be me. And now all this with … well, at night…"

"Listen carefully to me, Peter," Dr. Maywood said. "There is a part of you that is a little child and we need to listen to that part of you and take care of that child. But that's not all there is to you. You are a strong, grown man who is a brave soldier, and who's confident, and who's a trustworthy friend. And he is in charge."

Peter looked up, tears in his eye. "Well, if he's in charge, I wish he'd ruddy well get here and take over so I can stop crying every five minutes," he said. "I'm bloody, bloody tired of feelin' so bad and so ruddy weak."

Hogan looked at Peter, and then at Dr. Maywood. "A little sleep might help," he said.

Dr. Maywood nodded in agreement. "Yes, let's all rest. We can talk further tomorrow," she said.

"In 'ere, Sir?" Peter said to Colonel Hogan, yawning.

"Yes, sleep in here," the Colonel said. "I'll bring you your nightshirt."


	14. Chapter 14: Stay or Go?

Leaving Newkirk in his office, Hogan escorted Dr. Maywood to the tunnel guest quarters. The tiny alcove was set off behind a heavy drape. It was simply but adequately furnished with a narrow bed, a side table with a pitcher and bowl and a small glass for drinking water, a stiff ladder-back chair, and a floor lamp with a dim bulb.

Hogan waved her to sit on the bed and pulled up the chair. "What do you think?" he asked. "What are your impressions?"

"He's embarrassed and he's physically tired and emotionally spent," Dr. Maywood replied. "He is deeply conflicted about his brothers and father. There is no question they abused him relentlessly, and yet…"

"He hates … hated… his father," Hogan replied.

"Did he tell you that?" Dr. Maywood inquired.

"No, but he has told LeBeau, maybe not in so many words…"

Dr. Maywood was shaking her head. "Well, at some level I am sure that's true. But it's clear to me he wanted his father's and brothers' approval almost as much as he wanted their protection."

"It doesn't make sense," Hogan said. "Why would he care?"

"Because good or bad, they are his family. If he couldn't measure up, he saw that as a problem with himself, not them. He's the youngest boy—he remembers being the small, defenseless one—and deep inside he counts on them and believes what they say," Dr. Maywood said.

She sighed heavily. "We see these problems in poor communities where there is too little work, too little food, too much drink, and too many children. By Mavis's account, their father was not an easy man to begin with, but after he lost his wife he become more violent and aggressive than he had ever been. She said he'd long mistreated the older boys—hitting them, berating them—but it was later that the unkindness festered into very serious abuse. I think the only reason Peter didn't become violent and abusive himself was that he had his mother's memory and his sisters' love to cling to, especially Mavis. It had nothing to do with his brothers protecting him, not matter what he thinks. He has simply needed to _believe_ they were protecting him."

Hogan put his head in his hand and sighed. "I can't begin to understand how anyone could have mistreated him for so long."

"The remarkable thing is how resilient he truly is. He survived a childhood that would have destroyed many of us. And he came through it with a sense of humor and a sharp mind despite the odds," Dr. Maywood said. "That's all him, Colonel. He has a great deal of strength within him, despite what we are seeing right now."

"We really need him on the team, Dr. Maywood. His skills are unique and very valuable to us," Hogan said.

"Yes, he has skills of which he is alternately proud and ashamed. He knows he's a talented thief and he gets a great deal of satisfaction from being able to evade and trick others. That's the boy in him—he's likes making mischief," Dr. Maywood said with a chuckle. "But of course he knows the very skills that make him so valuable to you and your team were acquired out of desperation and dishonesty."

She stopped and looked up at Hogan. "He really is very, very complicated, and that's without even considering his stammer and his other problem of the moment."

"Well, what can we do for him? Can he get overcome this… this little problem he's having?"

Dr. Maywood smiled sadly. "If you mean the bedwetting, I am confident that little problem will eventually take care of itself, Sir. But in the meantime, it is corrosive. It's eroding his self-confidence and causing him overwhelming embarrassment. Generally it would be best if we could take him away for some intensive emotional support and psychiatric treatment…"

Hogan's shoulders drooped. He was afraid of this. He wanted the best for Newkirk, and feared that he couldn't provide it. "So he has to go," he said.

"No. I truly think it's best that he stay here. He has a sense of purpose and a sense of belonging. If you and your team are able to give him the support he needs…"

"We can. I think you've seen that," Hogan interjected.

"… yes, I have. Well, then I think he should stay. But Colonel, you are going to have to devote some time to his well-being and keep everyone clear as to what is and isn't all right."

"What do you mean?"

"You can support and encourage him, but you must let him stand on his own two feet, Sir."

"Of course," Hogan said. "All my men do."

A smile crinkled at the edge of Dr. Maywood's mouth again. "Yes, but Newkirk is special to you."

"All four of my core team members are special to me, Dr. Maywood. Each in his own way, I suppose," Hogan added with a light air in his voice. "Going through everything we've been through together, well… we're brothers."

Hogan's words slowly petered out. Dr. Maywood said nothing to break the silence, but simply scrutinized him expectantly until eventually Hogan spoke again.

"Newkirk is different, true," Hogan said with a laugh. "He's one of our younger men here, yet he's also an old-timer in camp. He's obviously sad inside, yet he makes us all laugh like nobody else can." His words stalled out again until he added quietly, "And I can't overlook his stutter. It makes us all a little more protective of him, I guess."

"He's vulnerable," Dr. Maywood agreed. "It's that vulnerability that worries me. Not with respect to doing the work you expect of him—I think he will always rise to the occasion because he needs to be needed. But the other thing he needs is clear, fatherly guidance in order to be the best man he can be. You're the one to give it, but it's going to take discipline from you and your men to let him work through his own grief and pain. You can't coddle him, and you can't let the others do so either."


End file.
